by Eric Flint
Turning to look back at the head of the dock, he caught sight of the primary architect of the misinformation and misleading movements that would hopefully leave the Spanish baffled as to the actual numbers, types, and deployment of their vastly expanded fleet. Eddie Cantrell, his stride almost normal, was weaving through the stevedores, deckhands, and pursers that were making their last-minute preparations and adjustments.
Maarten took the moment to watch the young up-timer’s approach. It would be peculiar not to see him in his office and around the halls of Fort Oranje for so many weeks. It would be stranger still not to hear the cheery banter that was his hallmark, even though he was not aware how often it lifted others’ spirits, particularly during the dark days when he had first arrived.
And now he was going off, with Michael McCarthy and Kees in tow, to build a naval facility on Antigua. Which would also require initiating a host of ancillary projects to ensure an adequate training program, site defensibility, fresh water, smelting and repair facilities, and local husbandry. All of which he accepted with a rueful reference to how much time and labor each would take—but without ever doubting that he could, in fact, achieve what was required of him. Not because he was arrogant, but because he simply did not waste time doubting his abilities.
Maarten frowned as Eddie threaded a tight and winding course through two different groups of lightermen who were busy loading, unloading, or cursing the incompetence or inconsideration of their fellows. There was so much riding on the young man’s modest shoulders. After ten months, Tromp still could not decide if it was a curse or a blessing that Edward Cantrell did not fully understand just how exceptional he was. Probably because, having come from unremarkable (at best) origins, and having an agreeable nature, no simmering dissatisfaction had boiled to his surface. What had happened instead was that he rose to the needs of a completely unprecedented occasion and, in the course of so doing, revealed a completely unanticipated depth and breadth of skills and aptitudes.
He approached with his customary grin and complete lack of reserve. “I’m on time!” he shouted.
Maarten managed not to smile. “So you are. You might even consider making a habit of it.”
Eddie chuckled. “Yeah, it’ll be a lot easier on Antigua.” Realizing how that statement might have sounded in the context of the inevitable difference between his early morning activities there and on St. Eustatia, he blushed. “Well, you know what I mean.”
Tromp couldn’t suppress the smile anymore. “Yes, I believe I do.” He turned to look out at all the ships. “I shall be sad to see so many go,” he mused. “They are a comforting sight. But that is the nature of expansion. Now, I mean to talk to you about your determination to offer the leased ‘laborers’ military training. You have enough on your hands. And it could be politically . . . sensitive.”
Eddie put his hands on his hips, squinted out over the bright water. “Well, Maarten, if you’re right about what could happen here in the worst-case scenario, I’d like to give the slaves returning to St. Eustatia a fighting chance if the garrison won’t enforce the protections that are now a matter of law. Besides, I’m not doing the training. I’m going to have a lot of bored Wild Geese on my hands, as well as German ship’s troops. Better than giving them make-work. And with Captain Arciszewski coming along to supervise the fortifications, I might even have the nucleus of a school. Might want to set up a naval academy, while I’m at it.”
For a moment, Maarten was preparing to plead against such youthful optimism, to be more realistic about how many projects he could oversee—until he saw the hint of a grin twitching the corner of the up-timer’s mouth. The admiral laughed. “I almost believed you.”
“No, I was just hauling your leg.”
“Pulling my leg. I have finally learned that idiom, thank you very much. And those schools may actually be a fine idea. Eventually. But for now, Ove Gjedde is producing fine sailors at a respectable pace, right here. And he sends his regards, but is out on the water, making lives miserable for more would-be navigators.”
Eddie was looking at the timepiece he called a “wristwatch,” and then glanced back along the dock. “Maarten, I know Houtebeen keeps his own hours, but do you know if he is actually going to show up? My skiff is going to be here in—”
Tromp smiled and nodded over Eddie’s shoulder. “And here he is.”
Jol’s own skiff was completing its approach from the nearby Achilles. The admiral had evidently spent his last night in Oranjestad sleeping aboard: a good choice, in that it precluded any hedonistic excesses that would leave him suffering from indigestion, exhaustion, or a hangover when he was supposed to be weighing anchor. At least, that was the theory.
And on this occasion, it just might have worked: Jol waved off the hand Eddie offered, and swung up to the dock unassisted. “I’ll not be troubling a fellow member of the One-Legged Fraternity to help me do what I must be able to do on my own. Intrepid looks as ready to leave as my Achilles, Eddie, aye?”
Eddie smiled. “Intrepid is shipshape and ready to get underway, Admiral Jol.”
Who laughed. “And next you’ll be calling me ‘Cornelis’! Maarten, this young fellow is entirely too well mannered. You must give me charge of him some week, that I might teach him the rarified pleasures of—oh: wait. My pardons. A married man. Well, you’ll be a fine example to children, then. Very respectable. Too respectable. Never mind; here, this fellow trying to climb around me to get on the dock is the one I told you about.”
He stepped aside, and a tall dark man, probably about Eddie’s age, more or less leaped up to stand upon the dock. It was an impressive feat of not only strength and agility, but a well-honed instinct for the rocking of the waves and swells.
Tromp’s first thought as the muscular man stepped into the group was that he was the same physical type as Hugh O’Donnell: a lithe, tigerish build combined with natural grace. But this fellow was younger, was as dark as Hugh was fair—he was clearly of mixed race—and carried an aura of brooding menace whereas the Irish earl radiated a glow of fellow-feeling and easy confidence.
The new arrival surveyed the group, his eyes flickering uncertainly as they grazed over Eddie.
Who, to his credit, responded by sticking out his hand: “I’m Commodore Cantrell. And you are?”
The tall man—taller than Hugh, even—looked down at Eddie and frowned. “Your English, it is strange. I apologize; I am distracted by that. The name of my family is no longer important. My baptized name is Diego. Where do men speak English as you do?”
Jol glanced at his taciturn friend. “You have heard, perhaps, of a town in Europe that appeared in a ring of fire from the future?”
“Yes,” answered Diego. “I hear it in the mouths of the same jug-lovers who tell of cities on the back of sea tortoises, dragons a league in length, and other wonders magical and impossible.”
Tromp nodded. “But in this case, the story is true; Commodore Cantrell is from that future town.”
Diego nodded somberly, cast an eye over his shoulder: it was fixed on the three remaining steamships. “They are yours?”
“They have been placed under my command,” Eddie amended. “And yes, their differences are due to devices shaped by the knowledge we brought from the future.”
Diego scanned the group again. “You sail against the Spanish. You are allies with the Dutch.” He was clearly seeking confirmation, although it was uttered as a statement.
“I do. I am. And my name is Eddie.”
The newcomer screwed up his face. “Ed d-ee?”
“Short for Edward.”
Another nod. “My friend”—he glanced at Houtebeen—“has asked me to remain here while he sails to Trinidad. He says you might wish to speak with me at length about what I know of both the Brethren of the Coast and the Free Companies.”
“Unfortunately,” Eddie said, “I will be departing shortly. But I wonder if I could send questions to Admiral Tromp and if he might convey them to you?”
“Which is?” Tromp asked, surprised.
“Curaçao,” Diego said. “It is no more.”
Tromp had half-expected that news but had not anticipated a messenger such as this one. He considered Diego for several seconds. “Were you there?”
Diego nodded. “It was my shame to be there.”
“With the Spanish?”
Diego stared. “Yes. But I did not know that when I was approached by the Brothers of the Coast. After that, all I could do was leave as soon as possible.”
Jol interceded, glancing nervously at Tromp. “Diego has very important information. He arrived just last night, delivered to Achilles by some . . . er, professional acquaintances.”
“I see,” said Tromp, trying to keep his tone level. “Diego, allow me to be clear. Oranjestad is an open town, but not to those who might be our enemies. And unless I miss my guess, you have been—or are—a member of one or both of the pirate groups you mentioned. Be warned—”
“I am of them no longer. I joined them only to sail against the Spanish. Now, both groups have become the whores of the Spanish. I am done with them. I am here to aid you against your enemies, because they are mine. May I stay in your city?”
Tromp, overcoming the surprise at hearing anyone refer to Oranjestad as a “city,” nodded. “Yes. And we shall discuss the news you bring. Soon.”
Diego nodded, turned to Eddie. “I shall hope to hear from you, Eddie, if I may be of assistance.” He slipped to the outer edge of the dock and set off toward the roofs of the “city.”
Tromp frowned after him. “A man of few words.”
Jol waggled his unruly eyebrows sadly. “Because he’s a man of many hardships and sorrows. Mother was African or part. Father never acknowledged him. He wasn’t many years into manhood before he was affronted on that account.”
“Killed a hidalgo?” Tromp speculated, his eyes unreadable.
“Worse. The Spanish aristocracy is not honor bound to answer a challenge from one who is as lowborn as Diego. He became a laughingstock. He repaid Spain and Havana by raiding them whenever possible. Now he’s disgusted with the raiders.”
Tromp nodded. “Because they now take Spanish coin to attack us.”
Jol nodded back. “Something happened at Curaçao that so disgusted Diego that he refused to sail with them any longer. That meant abandoning his own ship and crew as they passed leeward of Montserrat, on their way back to Tortuga.”
Eddie leaned forward. “He knows Tortuga?” He waved to his approaching skiff.
Jol nodded, frowned. “Your inquiry does not sound casual, Eddie.”
“It’s not. I really am going to send you questions for him, Maarten.” Eddie started toward the boat from Intrepid. “What Diego knows . . . well, it could prove to be quite important.”
Tromp nodded. “I will make sure that Diego receives all your questions.” Jol was staring at Eddie as if trying to figure out what lay behind his sudden urgency over news of Tortuga.
Tromp stepped to the very edge of the dock as Eddie clambered down into the skiff. “Fair winds and be well, Commodore Cantrell.”
Eddie saluted. “I will, Maarten. And you be careful, too!”
Tromp returned the salute, let it fall, and Eddie did as well. Then, already seated on the skiff’s center thwart, he started talking to his sailors as they began leaning into the oars.
Jol nodded, looked questioningly at Tromp. “Why’s he so eager to speak to Diego?”
Maarten looked after the skiff. “Houtebeen, honestly: do you think I know what goes on in the mind of an up-timer?”
But in this case, Tromp suspected he did.
* * *
Anne Cathrine stood at the second-story bedroom window that was furthest from the still-unmade bed. When the servant had attempted to make it up, she had wordlessly indicated in the negative. And again, when she failed to appear downstairs, the same servant asked if she would like some nourishment. Again, she silently shook her head.
Intrepid was moving. Anne Cathrine could not see the whole of the cruiser over the top of the fort, but her immense sails distinguished her as she gathered speed toward the small northern headland that framed that side of the bay. The fluyts from Amsterdam had left along that course an hour before, getting a head start before the up-time vessels and the fast, nimble jachts came out after them.
She watched until they were gone.
But even then, her tears did not stop.
Chapter 39
Oranjestad, St. Eustatia
Seated at her writing desk from Intrepid, Anne Cathrine had just set aside her current book and was reaching for her clay mug of “coffee” when the door banged open and Leonora barged into the bedroom—and stared, shocked. “You’re up. And you’re reading!” She had begun the exclamation in a tone of surprise; it had transmogrified to baffled horror by the end.
“Yes, do come in,” Anne Cathrine replied, careful not to let her tone transmogrify as well, but from wry facetiousness to arch annoyance.
Their exchange was, she allowed with a small sigh, just another sign of their changed existence. In the wake of so much activity and so many new visitors and so many ships coming and going, Oranjestad’s retraction to its normal size and pace brought a matching emotional undertow. So even if its commerce and industry were still basking in a modest afterglow, the social mood was one of deflation.
But life went on in the town and the fields and in Danish House. They had even extended yet another invitation for Edel Mund to come live with them. After all, she was still a noble; her husband’s Icelandic tract had been conferred upon her by a sympathetic Christian IV. In a rare show of unalloyed unanimity, the Rigsrad had declared him a national hero. Which had only made her more bitter at herself and her prior focus upon status and comfort. When she did talk, it was of how by driving her husband to the risks he took, she had vouchsafed deathless fame for him. After all, it had only cost him an untimely death and her any chance of happiness or even peace.
Perhaps, Anne Cathrine mused as Leonora inspected her from a safe distance, it was fortuitous that Edel Mund refused their invitation. Danish House was quite dour enough, now. Whatever had happened between Sophie and Hugh on the day he departed was unclear, but it had driven her back into herself, and she had deflected any question or conversation that might have become an entrée to gentle inquiries. And as for Anne Cathrine herself, well—
“You are worrying me,” Leonora declared from the other side of the small table. “This is most unlike you. First, you have spent weeks moping—yes, moping! You can glare all you like; I said it and I mean it. Now, it was natural enough, I suppose with Eddie gone. But this—this!” she concluded, waving distressed fingers at the open book. “How long has this been going on?”
Anne Cathrine allowed a small grin to emerge. “I do read, you know.”
“Well, yes, I suppose you do . . . sometimes . . . well, not often . . . but I mean, really! The first thing in the morning? Is this why your first appearance downstairs has become later and later over the past month? I thought you were just sleeping even more than usual, but—”
Anne Cathrine reached over, closed the book, picked up her lukewarm carob concoction, and shook her head. “No, I have been reading. Quite a lot.”
The way Leonora sat next to her—close, eyes alert, leaning slightly forward—was identical to the way Anne Cathrine had seen her receive new patients at the infirmary. And her query was the same one with which she typically began those conversations: “Do you feel quite well?”
“So, if I am reading, that is a sign that I am not well? Thank you very much, darling sister!”
“Well, no, that is not what I meant, exactly . . . but it is a dramatic change in behavior and habit. And that is a significant diagnostic result.” She leaned back. “But of what, I am unsure.”
Anne
Cathrine smiled. “You cannot imagine how relieving”—and gratifying—“it is to hear that you are actually unsure of something. Of anything!” Anne Cathrine leaned in so that their shoulders touched briefly. “Clearly, this day is off to an excellent start.”
Leonora frowned and smiled in return. “Thank you . . . I think.” She craned her neck to get a look at the book’s cover. “Appendix G: Race in the New World,” she read aloud. “It looks very well printed indeed. And I would know. But an appendix? To what?”
Anne Cathrine sipped at her mug. “Before beginning this ‘reconnaissance mission,’ Eddie was tasked to assemble a comprehensive review of all up-time documents pertaining to what we might encounter here in the New World.” She smiled, partly at the surreal notion of learning about one’s own world from the books of a future that would now never be, and partly because talking about the book made her think of Eddie. “It was an immense undertaking and he had numerous assistants responsible for locating and recommending pertinent selections. Not just from the high school library, mind you, but from the entirety of Grantville. The resulting document was so long that it would have been unusable unless special topics were broken out separately.” She touched the cover of the appendix gently. “This is one such.”
Leonora stared at it, fascinated. “And you are allowed to read documents which were prepared for military purposes?”
“Some were not prepared strictly for commanders, but for selected political and even religious leaders. Such as this one. It is . . . most illuminating.”
“I want to read it, too,” Leonora declared. “When you are done, of course. And when do you think that will be? I have been meaning to—well, never mind that. You must get dressed—oh, you are! Come downstairs to help me.”
“With what?”
