by Eric Flint
But now, the issue had been resurrected in the most tense and ugly impromptu town gathering that Anne Cathrine had ever witnessed. And Edel Mund was not letting go of it. “You still have not answered, Jan Haet. And you may tell me that, as a Dane, I have no right to ask, but they seem to want an answer”—she swept her hand in a semicircle that indicated the tense crowd—“and you are oddly silent.”
“I gave my answer.”
Mund shrugged. “Give it again. Either they’ve forgotten it or don’t believe it.”
Haet’s face surged red and he leaped toward her, his whip moving. Pudsey and van Walbeeck started forward.
But Edel Mund, in circling away from Haet, had also moved further away from her would-be protectors. “Ah, mijn Heer, and now you mean to beat me, eh?” She stopped, her face thrust toward his. “Well, try it, coward. Go ahead! You are the animal, not these poor beings you torment. And now that your little rodent brain is emptied of lame rebuttals, you resort to force. So please, show the world your superiority. Beat the widow; show how your whip makes you the better being.”
Haet started forward again, but Musen came up behind him, and put a firm hand on his shoulder. He steered him away from Mund and kept him in tow as he walked over to the same African woman that Edel Mund had approached and questioned. Musen studied the slave’s shaking back. “She is not as old as you,” he mused, “but seems close in size and health, ja?”
Mund shook her head; her frown did not signify an answer in the negative but perplexity at why the slaveholder was asking such a question.
Musen made his intents clear so swiftly that many blinked: he spun and slashed the whip across the woman’s back with surprising force. He was clearly an expert; an extremely wide, bloody seam had been opened but no bone exposed. The woman screamed and then wept through the moans that followed. He nodded to Haet, who grinned and readied his own whip.
Musen considered the ashen-faced Mund. “Councilor Haet may not have the permission to beat you, Lady Mund, but I suspect he will be able to make you wish it was you under the lash.” As he smiled at Mund, he nodded.
Haet swung the whip in a wide serpentine and slashed down. The woman’s scream was not just one of agony but terror. Haet slashed again; the slave shrieked. A man beside her wept. Somewhere else in the group, a younger female voice cried out, probably the woman’s name: a rush of panicked syllables that sounded African in origin.
Musen held up a hand; Haet stopped, panting . . . but not from exhaustion.
Musen assessed Edel Mund, who seemed about to fall over. He gestured to the steps of a home that fronted on the square. “This may go on for quite some time, Lady Mund. You will find it less taxing to sit until it is over.”
“How many lashes do you mean to give her?” van Walbeeck asked through clenched teeth.
“I do not know.” Mund looked back at Haet, who shrugged. Mund cast an assessing glance at the slave’s bloody, shining back. “She is not strong, but she is relatively tough. It could take as many as sixty lashes.”
“Sixty lashes?” Anne Cathrine cried, looking from Pudsey to van Walbeeck to the sobbing woman. “What can you hope to accomplish with sixty lashes that ten would not achieve?”
“Her death,” Musen answered.
“But she—she did nothing!”
“True . . . except for refusing to move,” Mund amended with a gloating grin. “Because, as God is my witness, none of us ever told her that she must continue to lie there. Yet because of her, here we are, obstructing the road and so, breaking the law.”
Anne Cathrine could not decide which urge was stronger; to vomit or kill Musen where he stood.
“But,” he continued, “since the law also prohibits my friend from whipping Edel Mund, I have lawfully chosen to give him the full use of my property. That way, he is legally beginning to clear the road . . . and showing Lady Mund what he would otherwise have done to her.” Musen’s eyes narrowed—right before he nodded.
Haet threw his body into moving the whip up high and hard. Screams erupted from the crowd. Edel Mund rushed at Haet’s back, hands curved into talons. Without having thought to do so, Anne Cathrine discovered she had sprinted after Mund, was grabbing her shift, pulling her back.
Slave owners reacted to the sudden eruption of motion, brandishing weapons. Townspeople shrank away. Haet turned, whip forgotten, drew his knife when he saw Cathrine dragging Mund to safety. He leaped after them . . . but Cuthbert Pudsey rammed into his blind side, sprawling him in the dust.
Soldiers appeared among the slaveholders and the crowd. Haet reached for a pistol as he rolled to face Pudsey—whose own flintlock was up, cocked, and aimed at the small Dutchman’s chest before he’d laid a hand on his weapon.
“Enough!” Tromp’s impressively loud and sharp voice froze the tableau, which struck Anne Cathrine as how Brueghel might have depicted a battle among the inmates of an asylum.
Tromp stepped into the center of that imagined painting, pointing his index finger at the slaveholders as if lightning was ready to leap from its tip. “You will leave immediately. Sergeant, the first squad will watch to ensure that the remaining slaveholders allow their . . . charges to rise and return home.”
The landowners looked uncertainly at one another, weapons still in their hands.
“Sergeant, the second squad is to intervene if anyone obstructs the first squad from carrying out its orders. They shall take all such persons into custody.”
“And if they resist, sir?”
“Then your men are authorized to use force. To the final degree, if needed.”
Some of the landowners and all of the foremen made their whips and weapons as inconspicuous as they could.
Tromp was not finished. “Lady Mund makes an excellent point when she brings up the question of those whom we may depend upon to defend Oranjestad. And considering how that spontaneous militia was so very nearly swept away, and how capricious slaveholders have been in providing for the health of those voluntary defenders who were also their charges—”
“Our slaves!” Haet shrieked.
“—both the governor and I, given our respective duties to protect this colony, now have both the grounds and obligation to ensure the continuing well-being of those same voluntary defenders.”
There was a sudden hush among both the slaveholders and the townspeople.
“Maarten—” began van Walbeeck.
Tromp did not seem to have heard him. Or if he had, he did not care to listen. “Beginning tomorrow, designated individuals—although we shall consider volunteers with skill in medicine—shall commence regular but unannounced visits to the plantations of all the slave owners present here today. They shall be escorted by troops, as the visit is military in nature.”
“And what is the purpose of these intrusions? Harassment?” Musen asked loudly.
“Not at all. The designated individuals must be given private access to your slaves so that they may assess whether they remain fit to once again assist in the defense of this island. Any report of mistreatment or neglect shall result in those individuals being made temporary wards of the state—”
“What?” screamed Haet.
“—who shall be released back into the custody of the owner at such time as they are deemed recovered. Assuming that no investigation has been brought against their owner.”
“What kind of investigation and why?” asked Musen suspiciously.
“Any second confirmed report of mistreatment or neglect will necessitate an investigation to determine if this colony may continue to reside its confidence in the loyalty and support of the slave owner in question. If not, the community’s only recourse, both to secure its own safety and that of the mistreated slaves, is to immediately convert them into bondsmen. Without recompense to the owner.”
Musen’s objection was faster, strident. “This is nonsense, Tromp! How does any of this secure the safety of the colony? Slaves aren’t soldiers; they can’t—”
“Your slaves,�
� Tromp interrupted, “were far more enthusiastic in joining the defense of St. Eustatia than you were. Several took the risk of slipping away from your tracts in order to do so. Now, this is a particularly confounding fact, since many of those same slaves belong to and reside with owners who claim they had no knowledge of the impending attack. Perplexing indeed.”
There was no reply or even grumble from the slave owners and their men.
“More to your point, though, mijn Heer Musen, it also demonstrates that, left to make the choice for themselves, your own slaves would, and many did, come to defend Oranjestad. Should we need that loyalty and courage again, military prudence dictates that we cannot allow those defenders to remain under the control of men who do not share their zeal. Or who show, as today, that they will not comply with the rules of the colony, and who have no discernible regard for most of their fellow citizens. I trust that answers your questions?”
Haet spat. “Well, it certainly answers the question of who is the real government around here. Tell us, Jan van Walbeeck, do you need the admiral’s permission before pissing, too?”
The laughter was not entirely limited to the ranks of the slaveholders.
But van Walbeeck was one of those laughing as well. “Why, yes . . . if I had to relieve myself during a battle. Because that is Admiral Tromp’s domain of authority. But as far as the civilian administration of this colony is concerned, that very witty gibe could not be more wrong.”
“Then why did Maarten speak, instead of you? Scared we might taunt you, big cheeks?”
“Why no. I was simply concerned that my patience had grown so short that I might tell some truths that none of you gentlemen slaveholders wish to hear.”
“And what truths are those?” Musen asked.
“They remain unspoken truths but, after today, are obvious to all. Specifically, that while your collective ignorance, stupidity, and greed are very notable traits, they pale in comparison to your cruelty and depravity. So you see, it was very fortunate that Maarten spoke to you. Because I surely would have lost my temper and said such things.” Van Walbeeck held up his hands, still smiling. “How lucky that I did not do so.”
Laughter rose up from the townspeople, but hushed when the eyes of the remaining slave owners roved among them, seeking the identities of those who had laughed.
“And now,” Tromp announced, “you shall comply with our orders. Move these people from the square.”
Haet, more defiant than smart, retorted angrily “And if we don’t?” Musen put his palm to his face and shook his head.
Van Walbeeck folded his hands. “I understand why you did this. You wished to show that there are no clear boundaries defining what a slave owner may or may not do with their ‘property.’”
“And we broke no laws doing so.”
“Actually, you did. Mijn Heer Musen has already alluded to it: you used your property to obstruct a public thoroughfare. If you do not act now to correct that situation, we shall take appropriate action.” When there was no immediate reaction, van Walbeeck produced a sheaf and one of the crude but useful pencils which had sold by the hundreds the first day the convoy’s market had opened. “Shall I start making a list of those who are not complying?”
A muttering began, but so did movement among the plantation owners. They approached their slaves and ordered them to return home, often with words and a boot that the meanest man would not use on his dog.
* * *
Cries of “Fire! Fire!” were what woke Anne Cathrine, rather than the dull banging of Oranjestad’s makeshift gong. She flinched upright, grabbing for Eddie, found empty space instead, and felt her heart plummet even as she leaped out of bed.
She pulled on the shift she sometimes used as a nightgown and got to the front door just ahead of Sophie. She thought she heard Leonora yelling after them as they burst out of Danish House and almost ran headlong into the stumbling, sleep-dazed Cuthbert Pudsey, who swerved after them, stumbling.
Townspeople stared mute after the two young Danish women racing toward the bright glow over the near rooftops. More than a few followed them. Two corners and a twisting alley later, they burst onto the street where a small house was afire.
Edel Mund’s house.
Anne Cathrine looked wildly for water to douse the flames, but it appeared that the neighbors had already done so and used what little was ready to hand. But where was Sophie?
As if summoned by the thought, Sophie Rantzau appeared out of the nearby building: the tannery. She had an immense and heavy bucket in either hand. She was bowed under their weight, but Anne Cathrine wondered if she was also staggered by the sour, acrid stink coming from them. She passed one to Anne Cathrine and nodded toward the flame-covered door.
Anne Cathrine understood, and even as she ordered the surprised neighbors to get more of the tanner’s urine to fight the blaze, Sophie pitched the contents of her bucket at the entrance.
The liquid hit the flames like a palm swatting them away, released a choking reek in the process. But the wood was still burning, threatened to reignite.
Anne Cathrine heaved the contents of her own bucket, was pulled forward by the heavy pendulum momentum, and went with it.
The urine splashed and smothered the flames the instant that Anne Cathrine hit the door with her shoulder. It gave and she plunged through the fumes into the hovel.
In response to the new source of oxygen, the fire leaped at her like a demon from Saharan myths, reaching for her face—
And then she was flying backward, airborne as Sophie slung the smaller woman past her hip, hauling her bodily out of the doorway with such force that Anne Cathrine was briefly airborne before landing in the dirt. Sophie, hands warding off the outgushing flames, backed away along with the others who had been fighting the fire.
But she quickly brought her hands down to lay hold of Anne Cathrine, who, without thinking, was trying to plunge into the small inferno, determined to find and save—
“Anne Cathrine!” Sophie shouted into her face.
Anne Cathrine started, looked from her friend into the flames.
“No,” Sophie said, townspeople gathering around, witnessing the spectacle of two night-clothed, urine-stained, smoke-smudged ladies of Denmark huddled and firelit in the dirt of the street.
“But . . . ” Anne Cathrine pointed at the hovel. “But we have to . . . ”
“Lady Anne Cathrine,” said the closest of the faces ringing her, “Edel Mund is dead.”
Chapter 42
St. John’s Harbor, Antigua
St. John’s Harbor was beautiful, as it was every single day. And today, because there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, it was pretty, too.
Which weren’t the same thing for Eddie Cantrell, because when he looked at St. John’s Harbor, he rarely saw its natural loveliness. The bright blue waters, the lush growth clinging to the volcanic rocks and cliffs, and the white gulls wheeling in the sky were almost invisible, to him. What he saw was its real beauty.
Which was to say, its naval beauty: a long deep-draft waterway; an entry only nine hundred and seventy yards across between two promontories that formed a natural choke point; a deep inner anchorage that was one of the Caribbean’s most famous hurricane holes. And even if a threat managed to avoid detection as it passed St. Eustatius or St. Christopher, or avoided them altogether and came out of the northwest, the local highgrounds—ranging from four hundred to thirteen hundred feet—enabled constant observation out to a distance of thirty nautical miles. More, in most directions. Which in tactical terms translated to ample time to get any warships out of St. John’s Harbor and deployed into its approaches while still under the defensive umbrella of the batteries on the highground that lined that part of the coastline.
No, mused Eddie with quiet satisfaction, an island didn’t get any more exquisite than that. And he and the work crews were making it better all the time.
He looked away from the window to the exacting copy—enlarged—of an excellent map of A
ntigua. It covered the far wall, and beside it was a smaller, less-detailed version. That one was now festooned by pins of various colors: all the current projects and the ships in the bay.
Which looked pretty impressive, Eddie admitted. It wasn’t just Intrepid which had been bound for Antigua under the cover of escorting the convoy on the first leg of her return to Europe. While Resolve had returned to St. Eustatia after only a week, and it had been leaked that Intrepid was still in the Caribbean somewhere, Relentless and three of the four USE frigates had also doubled back to St. John’s Harbor. And there was also a steady stream of Spanish prize hulls that were undergoing repair, or in the case of any undamaged trade galleons, conversions that optimized them for war.
All those ships’ crews had not only swollen Eddie’s available workforce, but boasted a much higher than average percentage of artisans. In consequence, St. John’s Naval Base already had half as many buildings as Oranjestad (most of them larger, too) and almost twice the number of (again, larger) warehouses.
St. Eustatia was an additional source of workmen—Eddie grimaced every time he remembered they were actually leased slaves—but yesterday’s planned allotment had not arrived. The almost terse reply to his telegraphed inquiry indicated that all was well, but the situation there was “fluid.” Which made Eddie smile: that telegraph message had definitely come from Tromp, whose acquisition of select up-time terms and idioms had become some kind of weird guilty pleasure.
Well, whatever floats your boat, Maarten, thought Eddie, who almost groaned at his own pun before snagging the report on the progress the work crews had made on Intrepid. Mike’s writing was on the cover. Moment of truth.
Eddie pulled at the corner with a fingertip; he always hesitated before opening Mike’s updates on Intrepid because, in some ways, it was the most crucial single project being undertaken. But again, as always, he got annoyed at himself—don’t be gutless, Cantrell; waiting won’t change the news!—and opened it abruptly.
