by Eric Flint
Fadrique could almost read De Covilla’s self-loathing subtext in glowing words above his head: Or, to speak more frankly: the side that can exploit espionage and treachery most effectively is the one with the fewest scruples. All hail us, the pure-hearted champions of Holy Mother Church! No irony, there.
But what Fadrique said was: “I quite agree. But we have thus far employed them in a general sense—to merely bring us information of interest. Are you proposing something more . . . focused?”
He nodded. “I am. In managing our affairs with the privateers, I have learned that they use many of the same agents we do.”
“No surprise, there,” Gallardo snarled. “Faithless to one is faithless to all, no?”
De Covilla sighed. “I cannot deny that, even if I wanted to. But there is an advantage in this. We can use the privateers as conduits to an increased number of agents. And based on their reports, begin to discern those who are suitable for more than reporting on strategic gossip for the price of a goblet of wine.”
De Viamonte perked up. “For what would you use such confidential agents?”
De Covilla shrugged. “Nothing too complex or dangerous. They would simply be required to gather and remit information specifically pertaining to the movements by our enemies’ military forces, ships, or anything unusual or novel in their region.”
De Viamonte frowned. “Even with regular contact, such reports almost always come too late for us to act upon them. And I fear that, until we have radios, this shortcoming will persist.”
“And indeed it would, if we were attempting to gather intelligence for immediate action. What I am proposing, instead, is to seek patterns in their movement, in their refurbishment, in their use of facilities, of where they billet troops, warehouse spares. Simply knowing where they are positioning what kind of supplies tells us much about what they may be planning to do, what operations they may have given priority. For now, that may be the only way we can anticipate their actions because, to date, they never follow up any of their successes in accord with the time-honored habit of most combatants: to do the same thing, only on a larger scale and with more at stake. As was said at the outset, their pattern is that they refuse to follow a pattern—and so become unpredictable.”
De Viamonte was nodding. “There is merit in this. Write your proposal in greater detail for me. Now, what else may we use against our foes?”
“Their overconfidence,” Gallardo muttered sullenly.
“In what way?”
“Don’t know yet. Still thinking. The way they don’t use the same kind of plan over and over again means that whatever habits they do have are harder to see. But no one has that many successes without coming to rely on tools or outlooks that helped make those successes happen. Just don’t know what they are yet.”
The best thing about Gallardo, Álvarez reflected with a smile, was that he was as much of a son of a bitch to himself as everyone else. As if to prove the point, the hard-bitten captain shot a hard look at the admiral. “What about you? You’ve been awfully quiet.”
“I am reflecting upon how we may inspect our own assumptions and situation with such fresh eyes that we shall see every alternative, every advantage, that exists for us.”
“It seems like we just did that.”
“We have not.” Fadrique felt oddly young as he heard the words pour out of his mouth. “We must not merely think of new places to attack, new stratagems to employ, what new kinds of ships we must build, the new guns and carriages we need for them, or even the best way to build them. We must ask more fundamental questions and see where they lead.”
De Viamonte rubbed his well-groomed goatee. “Questions such as?”
Álvarez knew what a losing war looked like and knew there was only one way to turn this or any other around: by reassessing everything. On the other hand, he had existed at the upper tiers of the Spanish political and military elite for years, and knew that impolitic words or unconventional opinions could get one sent into retirement. Or worse. It had already happened to him once and he refused to let it happen again. But between the family that had been taken away by disease and the years that had accumulated upon his brow, he suddenly discovered that he’d rather die than give up, just as he’d rather die than go back into obscure disgrace.
So this is what is meant by “do or die”; not to charge into battle recklessly, but to speak one’s mind, without any restraints or misgivings. He took a breath and began.
“We must consider each order that comes from Spain and ask, ‘will this lead to victory or defeat?’ And if we discern it is the latter, then we must ask ourselves, ‘then what is a better option and why?’ In short, we must look to ourselves for different answers, for our own path toward victory.
“I can foresee that meaning we must change our industries, and with that, our economies. And if that is required to prevail, then we must not shirk considering it.”
Gallardo was staring at him. Fadrique couldn’t tell if he was about to kill him or propose undying fealty to his cause. De Covilla’s eyes were wide and he was flushed; with excitement or panic, there was no way to tell.
But de Viamonte was simply gazing at him, index finger propping up his high-domed head. “My friend, I would take care where I say such things.”
Álvarez shrugged. “I will take what care I may, but it is urgent that we begin to wage this war, and to love our king, without blinders on. We can only be so politic when asserting that Armendáriz must be brought in line by any means necessary, because we need the power of New Spain behind us in this. Or when we assert that we must employ any means at our disposal to compel the viceroy of Chile to send de Murga more resources and to push the rest of Tierra Firme to take action. As I said last year, we will live or die by how well we achieve these. Or not.”
De Viamonte smiled sadly. “I agree. And yet it is also true that you, Fadrique Álvarez de Toledo, may live or die by where you choose to speak such words—or not.”
The admiral heard the response coming out of his mouth unbidden, like a long unuttered truth that finally had a chance to leap out into daylight and be irreversibly seen and heard. “I pledged my life to king and country decades ago,” Álvarez said, “and have been called upon to risk it for far less compelling reasons and for far lower stakes than these. This battle is the one I have been preparing to fight my whole life. Accordingly, in order to win it, I am ready to lose my life in battle, or to lose my head to the king’s executioner.”
Chapter 29
Oranjestad, St. Eustatia
With the dance behind and several weeks of frantic trading concluded, the carnival pace—and hours—in Oranjestad had finally begun returning to normal. The market was once again quiet at six a.m., the only sounds coming from regular day-start activities: fishermen and laborers leaving their houses, breakfasts being cooked, chamber pots being emptied, some in unauthorized areas. All of it had a faint sense of sleepwalking about it, as if all the recent bartering and dancing and drinking had been a pinnacle of merriment and energy and that now, even the buildings themselves wanted nothing more than weary repose.
In the midst of the morning’s leaden yet dogged activity, there were few to obstruct or even notice a few crude wains being drawn from the head of the dock by the garrison’s three oxen. They made their way into Fort Oranje under the none-too-watchful eyes of still-drowsy guards. The loads in the wagon beds were bulky and in nondescript crates, some covered by old sail canvas. Hardly a commercial parade to quicken mercantile, or any other kind of interest.
Yet, had the procession attracted any dedicated observers, and had they been looking toward the tops of the fort’s walls, and if they had been able to see far enough into the crisp, black morning shadows, they would have seen marksmen of the Wild Geese, each with a rifle patterned on an up-time .40-72 Winchester lever-action. Half were tracking along with the slow, dull progress of the wagons. The other half were in slow, subtle motion, sweeping all the buildings that overlooked or had
immediate access to the wains’ route. Inside three of those buildings, four-man teams of Wild Geese waited for the signal that would bring them charging out into the street to ensure the safety of the wagons. Or more precisely, their contents.
But there was no such noise or excitement this morning. The gates to the fort swung wide and the wagons entered, one creaking piteously, before the gates closed behind them once again.
* * *
Maarten Tromp glanced at the team of stevedores who were unloading the boxes for what Eddie called “eyes-on confirmation.” A clinical-sounding up-time term meaning that one could not simply trust a manifest and a handwritten—or in this case, printed—bill of lading. Peering inside was the only way to be sure that what had gone into the crate was what came out at its final destination.
What was unusual about these cargo handlers was they were in matching, if unexciting, uniforms. Which seemed to be a motif about everything that came from the two new steam destroyers, Harrier and Relentless: standardized objects, routines, orders. In this case, it was evident not only in the dress but the actions and demeanor of the men, who began opening the crates without a word, without even meeting the eyes of the persons who were watching them work.
The two political witnesses to the unloading and confirmation of what were nominally secret cargos looked at each other. Then the taller, thinner one asked, “Granted, these crewmen are most efficient—most efficient!—but why were they tasked to this work rather than troops stationed here at the fort?”
Mike McCarthy, Jr. pointed up at the second-story windows that looked down into the compact marshaling yard; it was too small to be called a parade ground. “What do you see up there, Lieutenant Governor Corselles?”
Pieter glanced up. “I see closed storm shutters,” he observed in a wry tone that suggested he thought it witty in its profound obviousness.
“That’s right,” Mike answered, “and they’re all closed. And current patrols and checkpoints are being manned by the Wild Geese. All for the same reason that these newly arrived destroyer crewmen are doing the unloading and the unpacking: they already know about the cargo. They were responsible for it during the crossing of the Atlantic, so they already know the codes on the lading. Similarly, if any of the boxes had to be repaired or checked during the voyage, that, again, would be their job.”
The other civilian nodded, eyes narrowed. “So, by having these men do the work, no new eyes see the cargo. And thus, no new tongues may wag about it.”
Tromp suppressed a sigh. It was no surprise that Phipps Serooskereken saw and understood the significance before Pieter, his immediate superior.
Eddie Cantrell had moved forward to stand alongside the senior councilor of St. Eustatia’s Politieke Raad. “And since their ships are both heading away again in a few days, and since those crews already had their liberty ashore, we can be sure that even these men can’t spread word of what they did or saw today.”
The only woman present—Ann Koudsi, who had come up with Jol and Hugh from her work at the Trinidad oil rig—smiled. “So, are you going to tell us what’s behind door number three, Eddie?”
Tromp and the other down-timers smiled politely. As so often occurred with up-timers, he and his countrymen hadn’t the faintest understanding of her comment, except that it was yet another allusion to some ubiquitous aspect of the world they would never see again. But this at least sounded as though it was relevant, probably some reference to revealing an unknown or secret object.
Eddie smiled sideways and started walking around the boxes and pointing into one after the other. “Either in their entirety, or in parts, we have: rifles, pistols, ammo for all, second-generation Aldis lamps, tools for darn near everything, telegraph wire, portable smelters, powder grinders, shell molds, steam engines with driveshaft adapters, signal pistols, heavy flare launchers—”
Joost Banckert interrupted. “Those flare launchers. They look like the deck guns on your steamships, the, eh, ‘Big Shots.’”
Eddie nodded. “They’re modified models, designed to fire flares at a higher arc and to a much higher altitude than the signal pistols. A lot of new colors in the mix, too. And some go off like fireworks; you can see them really easily. We call those Tomshots.”
Mike McCarthy, Jr. rolled his eyes. “Let me guess: because Tom Stone came up with them.”
“The chemical magnate who now dwells in Padua?” Corselles asked. “That Tom Stone?” Tromp heard awe and a hint of ready sycophancy in the lieutenant governor’s voice.
Ann Koudsi chortled. “Is there any other Tom Stone?”
“You know him?”
The up-timers looked at one another. Ann was still smiling, but there was a hint of a frown creasing her brow. “Yes, Lieutenant Governor. Kind of hard not to. There weren’t many of us in Grantville when the Ring of Fire hit, and with a few exceptions, we all knew one another. Whether we wanted to or not.” She exchanged knowing glances with the other two up-timers; they all nodded and rolled their eyes. Ann pointed her dainty chin at the most distant row of boxes. “So what’s in those other crates?”
Eddie grinned. “Patience, patience. There’s actually a lot more that you’re not seeing because there’s just too much of it, and there’s no reason to unload it.”
“Like?”
“Well, a lot of ammunition and powder charges for the eight-inchers, even more for the down-time cannons, three more mitrailleuses—uh, machine guns, sort of—and another eight-inch naval rifle. And coal. Lots of coal. Lots and lots of coal.”
Tromp smiled. “So, we have another of your wonderful naval rifles. A spare?”
Eddie sighed. “No, a hand-me-down.”
Tromp felt his smile invert as he puzzled out the colloquialism. “It is—it is used? Then why was it sent to us?”
Again, the three up-timers exchanged looks. Mike McCarthy, Jr., the oldest person present, crossed his arms like a patriarch about to deliver news sure to disappoint his entire family. “It was sent to us because it was, well, free.”
Corselles frowned. “That cannot be possible. It must be costly! Your naval rifles are so large and carefully crafted that surely—”
Again, it was Serooskereken who provided insight for his superior. “I believe Mr. McCarthy simply means that it was no longer of value to the USE. So they were willing to send it to us.”
Mike sighed. “Actually, unless I’m wrong, that’s the case with a lot of this cargo. Those rifles and pistols? Older models or newer ones that they didn’t want to spend the time and money refurbishing. The mitrailleuses? Either salvaged from a wreck or decommissioned.” He shrugged. “We’re like the little kids in a family, getting what’s left of the big kids’ clothes.”
“Well,” Eddie added, “it’s not quite that bad. Admiral Simpson has been pushing hard for newer systems, naval and otherwise. Constant upgrades.”
“And how does that help us?” Banckert asked with his family’s trademark irritability.
Eddie shrugged. “Because the moment a piece of machinery gets replaced, one of three things happens to it. It’s junked, it’s put in reserve, or it gets sent here. So by constantly pressuring Grantville’s government to spend on new systems, Simpson is not just pushing the leading edge of our technology forward, he’s creating a stream of decommissioned equipment for us.”
“Yes,” Banckert grumbled, rather like a dog that wasn’t quite ready to give up a bone, “equipment that we have to spend our time fixing. If we can.”
Eddie’s tone was clearly intended to coax the bone out of Banckert’s argumentative jaws. “See those seven crates of tools? We can fix anything you see here in front of you. And a lot more, besides.”
“And that sounds like more jobs and apprenticeships to me!” said Corselles happily.
Tromp nodded. “Assuming they can be trained to the necessary standards, I see no reason why not.” He glanced at Eddie. “Do you have objections?”
Eddie shook his head. “Not at all.”
P
hipps Serooskereken frowned. “I confess I was expecting a different answer, Commodore.”
Tromp kept his face motionless as he silently berated himself. His remark about allowing civilians to repair military items had been an innocent slip, but Phipps had seen the implications. Oh well, my mistake to fix.
Tromp waved the stevedores into the hulking mass of the fort proper, waited until the heavy-timbered door closed behind the last of them. “Now, Phipps: why did the commodore’s answer surprise you?”
“Because since you have observed strict secrecy unloading and revealing these cargos, it is not consistent to then turn some of them over to civilian artisans for repair.”
Tromp sighed. “You are completely correct, Senior Councilor.”
“Then which is it, Admiral? Are they to remain secret or are they to be given to civilians for repair?”
“Both.”
“Huh?” said McCarthy.
Eddie smiled sheepishly. “Welcome to ‘secrecy theater,’ Mike.”
But Serooskereken had jumped ahead with a thin smile. “Of course. The Spanish will learn of the new ships and convoy, and they will presume that it has brought us many necessary goods and tools, some of which would logically be new, advanced war matériel.
“However, if their agents do not hear of any cargos being unloaded separately and secretly, they would become suspicious; equipment designed or made by up-timers is almost always of strategic importance. So your ‘slip’ in allowing some of it to be repaired by civilians will be seen as a ‘security error’ that reveals exactly what the Spanish expect: improved weapons and machines.” He frowned, glanced quickly from Eddie’s face to Tromp’s. “But this charade is only necessary if you have truly secret cargos that you want them to overlook.”
Tromp shrugged and turned his palms outward in resigned affirmation.
Banckert’s irritability returned. “So you have evidence of spies among us already? And I was not informed? Maarten, you and I had better—”
