by Eric Flint
For the first time, Haet did the smart thing; he shook his head instead of opening his mouth.
Van Walbeeck interlaced his fingers where they rested on his belly. “Allow me to tell you exactly how many people know of the brick that went through Lady Mund’s lovely stained-glass window, her lovely indulgence . . . as some called it.” Van Walbeeck’s smile was arctic. “There are five people who know. Three are military men: the soldier who discovered the brick, the sergeant to whom he showed it, and the officer who received the brick from the sergeant. None of them have left the fort since those events. The soldier has been kept confined so that none may question whether he, well, spoke inadvisably of what he found. And all of you are personally acquainted with the officer in question: our garrison commander, Lieutenant-Colonel von Schutte, whose discretion and loyalty are known to you from our days in Recife.”
“You said there are five men who know of the brick; who are the other two?” Musen asked with a frown.
De Bruyne closed his eyes. “Look in front of you, Hans. You can count, yes?”
Musen seemed to see Tromp and van Walbeeck anew. “Oh.”
Van Walbeeck smiled, turned his gaze back upon Haet. “So you see, mijn Heer, I am baffled as to who could possibly have told you about the brick that went through Lady Mund’s window and hit the oil lamp that started the fire.”
“So . . . so you have determined that it was an accident! That it was not intentiona—!”
“Shut up, Haet!” de Bruyne spat over his shoulder. He sighed, stared at Tromp. “The slaves whose labor we contracted to you shall be at the work sites by lunchtime.”
* * *
When the three sets of dejected footsteps had receded so far down the fort’s echoing hall that they could no longer be heard, Jan van Walbeeck leaned back in his seat. “Well, that tears it.”
“And about time,” Maarten growled.
“How so?”
“Jan, tell me: just how long could you watch this go on? How long could you stand for this dainty dance of legal manners, tapped out upon the bloody backs of fellow men who are slaves for no other reason than the God-given color of their skin?”
Van Walbeeck shrugged. “I do not disagree. Yet, you said it yourself, Maarten. Rebellion will kill this colony. And you may have just started one.”
“Well,” muttered Tromp, “if I did, at least I take comfort that I am on the right side.”
“Again, I agree. But I wonder how much that would matter if the outcome of such a rebellion is that the Spanish hear of it and arrive to strike us at our weakest. They could make all of us their slaves.” He sighed. “Or worse.”
“Well, Jan, I think that is far less likely now, given the forces that have joined ours and the opening of Amsterdam and our other ports. By the way, did you notice? Not one of those three had any advance warning of the exemption or the exclusion.”
Van Walbeeck let out a long sigh. “And de Bruyne was too surprised by the ineptitude of his lackeys not to have tipped his hand. So it seems that I was right; even though Pieter Corselles is less, er, resolute than Phipps and Servatius, he is not giving away information to the slaveholders. And if he cannot be corrupted by them, I find it inconceivable that he would knowingly be an agent for the Spanish. He has no reason to do so, and every reason not to.”
Tromp nodded. “Yes, but ‘knowingly’ is a very important qualifier, Jan. I am convinced of Corselles’ loyalty, but not of his discretion.”
Jan shrugged. “I would disagree if I could. So we will have to continue to be very selective regarding what we discuss in his presence. And share as much as we might so that he will not feel excluded. While we are on the topic of confidential information, I assume you have seen the telegraph from the Stadtholder.”
“You mean his warning that Fernando is sending a direct representative to New Amsterdam? A royal governor, no less.” Tromp nodded. “I glanced at it. Just before the meeting. It was waiting in the overnight pouch.”
“Maarten, do you really see it as a warning? He specifically assures us that our much-beset King in the Lowlands has no intent of giving us orders. Or sending anyone to the New World with the power to do so. He is scrupulously obeying both the letter and spirit of the agreement he made with Fredrik Hendrik in order to reunite the Netherlands. Yes, Fernando officially controls the foreign policy of the Lowlands—but ‘officially’ leaves a lot of maneuvering room for Dutch forces in the New World. I find it very reassuring.”
“That is because you are an optimist, Jan. I find it very logical.”
“It is, in many ways. And you seem to have a particular one in mind.”
Tromp nodded. “If there was any hint, any shred of evidence, that King Fernando was giving orders to forces directly opposing those of Spain, his brother Philip IV could not abide that. Even if he was willing and wanted to.”
“A king cannot appear to be weak or irresolute,” van Walbeeck agreed. “I am sure that is part of Fernando’s calculus, too. But I suspect that means he will send a most discriminating and circumspect fellow to be the extension of his authority in the New World. And I found it significant that the message specifically stated that he would be the royal governor of the New Netherlands—not all territories of the Low Countries in the New World. That would exclude the Caribbean and all its islands.”
“Time will tell,” allowed Maarten. “And assuming you are right, it might be wise to put some forces at his disposal.”
“I’m sure he’s already coming with some, Maarten.”
“So am I. But in the event that the Dutch on the mainland resist this fellow’s authority—and it is easy to see how they might—they would find it more difficult, or at least confounding to do so if we send along a ship or two to give him not merely some extra strength, but the informal imprimatur of the Stadtholder and his senior representatives in the New World.”
“Meaning us!” murmured Jan, affecting the palm-rubbing glee of an adolescent.
“Yes,” Tromp agreed with a laugh while wondering if van Walbeeck’s reaction was entirely an act.
* * *
“Seamstress?”
She did not stop so much as dragged to a halt. Just going to Heer Musen’s home to pick up his wife’s garments was unsettling enough; working there made her nervous, almost fearful. Of what, she was not sure. She was a free woman and he had need of both her overt and covert services. But she had seen the pinch-faced man exorcise his demons, and exercise his lusts, upon his slaves and was always eager to leave. However, he was evidently not ready for her to do so just yet. She was ready to grit her teeth before replying when he walked into the room. She started. “Yes, Heer Musen?”
He smiled at her pulse of fear. “You have my wife’s party dress?”
“The one that you needed done by tomorrow? Yes, sir.” And you are a fool, demanding “immediate repairs” for a party dress when there is no talk of any party in the foreseeable future. Everyone is too busy talking about what you and your cronies did in the square, you beast.
But Musen was determined to make his intent singularly clear. “You are sure you know the dress I mean? The special one?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you are familiar—you have actually met—the gentleman who shall be picking it up?”
“He patronizes my business regularly, sir. Many of my customers trust him to pick up their . . . garments.” And the confidential messages hidden in the seams.
He smiled. “Of course they do.” He produced a stuiver from his pocket.
The seamstress shook her head. “I am sure the gentleman will convey the—er, your payment to me when he picks up the lady’s dress.”
“I am sure he will. This is from me. Just from me.”
“For . . . for what, sir?”
“I simply wish to express how much I appreciate your lovely lips . . . and how much I appreciate your ability to keep them closed.” When she hesitated, he added, “It would . . . irritate me if you refused it.”
/> She edged toward him—but not too close—curtsied, and snatched the coin before almost running out of the house. His laughter followed her as she shut the door and then dashed down the footpath, back to the ribbon of wheel ruts that was the road, this far out from Oranjestad.
It was strange to think that a gratuity might be paid for her ability to keep secrets; after all, that was the most basic requirement of any confidential agent. But she would never have believed that having a coin, a gift, pressed upon her could also imply the mortal cost of failing to remain silent.
Until now.
Chapter 44
Santo Domingo, Hispaniola
The Frenchman mopped his brow. He glanced toward the door through which servants came and went. “Governor de Viamonte, I would welcome another glass of water.”
Fadrique Álvarez de Toledo smiled as his friend Juan nodded and casually raised a finger. A mixed-race slave came through the door almost instantly, bearing the glass of water before any request for it had been (apparently) conveyed. You may be infirm, de Viamonte, but you play the wizened wizard passably well.
The Frenchman, who, like many of his kind, seemed to pride himself on alternating between blasé indifference and haughty sangfroid, sat a bit straighter.
Ah, Juan got you at last, Fadrique exulted inwardly. Now that the oyster has opened a crack, we’ll pry and see what’s inside.
He was not alone in that anticipation. De Covilla stroked his mustache to hide the shade of a smile that passed over his lips. But Gallardo, the oaf, leaned forward expectantly. If the Frenchman saw and interpreted the gruff soldier’s reaction as betokening a new, keener level of interest in what he might say, he gave no indication of it.
Indeed, the Frenchman seemed busy gulping down the water. Almost desperately. While he was not burdened with any outwardly noticeable ailments, he was neither young nor had he aged well. He was pale, clearly shortsighted, and frail. He was probably about sixty, but looked closer to seventy. Or death. Whichever came first.
De Viamonte let him finish his water. “We very much appreciate your account of the savage ambush of La Flota, Monsieur Hargault. It is very illuminating.” It wasn’t really; it had mostly been a confirmation of what they had already learned. “However, there is one final matter on which we hope you may enlighten us.”
Hargault nodded, suppressed a leathery little belch. “The balloon I was accompanying.”
“Yes. I confess it is a puzzlement to us.”
“Why?”
De Viamonte glanced at de Covilla and leaned back.
The hidalgo captain, who seemed a great deal less young than he had a year ago, leaned forward. “I believe the governor means to suggest that, up to this point, our nations have been, well, let us say, competitors in the Caribbean.”
“True,” Hargault replied before the pause became pregnant. “But times have changed.”
“Yes. The Dutch and their allies have apparently seized all the possessions of His Eminence Richelieu’s Compagnie des Îles de l’Amérique.”
“I am not a diplomat,” Hargault sniffed. “But I feel it safe to say that the ruination of one of Richelieu’s pet projects shall be a cause of intense delight for His Majesty Gaston.”
Gallardo was, as ever, shockingly blunt. “So your king has no interest in the Caribbees?”
“I cannot be sure, but given the current circumstances, I very much doubt it. And now that our presence in this region is at an end, it allows him to focus on a much greater prize.”
Only de Covilla evinced no momentary confusion. “Of course. His great prize would be the North American continent itself.” Álvarez and the other two Spaniards stared at him. He shrugged. “I have had the opportunity to read widely in the up-time histories. France found its greatest successes there. And historically, their greatest—indeed, their only—important competitors were the English.”
“Who are now, truly, insular,” Álvarez mused. “So,” he asked Hargault, barely believing he was being as direct as Gallardo, “there is no continuing interest in our regions?”
“As I said, I am not a diplomat. But I know several, and they talk in their cups. Nothing too specific, of course, but they love intimating more influence and access than they have. This is why it is significant that none of their talk even touches on your territories.” He saw the uniformly uncomprehending stares and expanded. “I discount ninety percent of what junior diplomats say as self-flattering lies. However, it is also true that they lack the imagination to lie about a region that is not on the lips of the court. So I feel it safe to conclude that little or nothing is being said about Spanish possessions, even where I may not hear it. Otherwise, they would be lying about those, too.”
De Viamonte quirked a half grin. “There is logic in that.”
De Covilla frowned. “Your Excellency, is your meaning that in this regard, a trend that is historically consistent with what happened in the up-time world may indicate deeper parallels that will impart a similar strategic impetus here, too?”
“That is possible, but that was not my meaning, Eugenio. I refer simply to the political pragmatism that is implied in the king of France’s willingness to sell his competitors a balloon. Spain’s fortunes have been waning since the Americans arrived. So have France’s.” He turned toward Hargault. “Our master Philip, and your master Gaston, have ample reason to at least refrain from antagonizing each other, even if they have not made common cause.”
Not yet, Álvarez mused silently, with a pull at his beard. “Tell me, Monsieur Hargault; are you the—what would you call it?—architect of the balloon? Its builder?” He certainly didn’t look like the latter.
Hargault flipped his wrist in dismissal. “I am a scientist and a professor, formerly associated with the Université d’Orléans. As such, I was consulted on both the design and the fabrication of the balloon, but did not carry out either, myself.”
“Then why were you sent with the balloon?”
“As I said, I am a scientist. And I have a passing familiarity with engineering. We knew, however, that for those unfamiliar with the operation of the device, there could be two difficult—not to say fatal—challenges: learning how to operate it and addressing any unforeseen complications.”
Fadrique nodded. “I understand the first challenge. We have no balloonists, so someone must teach them. But I am unsure what you mean by ‘unforeseen complications.’”
That was the question that opened the Gallic oyster. As the cagey Frenchman warmed to his favorite topic, he also grew less guarded. So, by the time he had explained the many local variables that might require adjustments to both the balloon and its operation—different levels of heat by the combustion of animal oils novel to the New World; unforeseeable high-altitude wind patterns; new molds and fungi that might show an appetite for the envelope; a dozen others—he was also talking about the transaction whereby it was sold to Spain. Who had been involved, the dickering over price, the obstruction, the months of waiting for decisions to emerge from the Escorial, and some religious objections which even the most devout Frenchmen found absurd.
This was the opening for which Fadrique had been waiting. “So, I gather that you and the others who created the balloon had been hoping to sell more than just one.”
“Vraiment! It was most frustrating when we did not. That is why I was sent along with the device: to ensure that it would perform properly. Successful operation was the condition for additional purchases. Frankly, though, I remain skeptical of that promise. I mean no disrespect to your nation or its sovereign, gentlemen, but it was most . . . trying to arrive at terms with its representatives.” He grunted. “You gentlemen are refreshingly frank.”
“So much so,” Fadrique followed, “that I wonder if you would consider a business arrangement in addition to the one you have with Spain.”
Hargault’s face was a study in perplexity; the others’ were studies in surprise, tinged with fear. The Frenchman’s frown deepened. “I do not know what
meaning I should derive from that statement, Admiral.”
“I simply mean that there are gentlemen here in the wealthiest colonies who find the idea of, er, ‘ballooning’ most intriguing. And we expect, most invigorating. And insofar as those of us here have ready access to all manner of products and coin that you might find interesting, would you and your associates be amenable to furnishing, oh, say, half a dozen of us with our own balloons? For private use?”
At the words “half a dozen,” Hargault’s thin, wrinkled lips parted. They were shiny and becoming wet, as if he had smelled his favorite food. “I am relatively certain we could. But how—?”
“We will speak of specifics soon enough, my friend. And we will make a ship available to convey you safely back to your home. No need to expend the extra travel, time, and paperwork that would be necessitated by returning through Spain itself. Now, I am certain that Governor de Viamonte would be happy to keep you as his guest until such time as we have worked out the details and readied that ship, yes?”
Hargault nodded eagerly; de Viamonte’s similar affirmation was more studied.
When the Frenchman had left, there was complete silence. Well, thought Fadrique, at least I haven’t been run through. Yet.
De Viamonte nodded, eyes narrow. “That was extremely well played, my friend. It may also get us killed.”
Álvarez reached out and poured a half glass of wine, although he felt quite ready to down the bottle. “No, it may get me killed. Hear me out. That means you, too, Gallardo.” He took a long swig. “In my next conversation with Hargault, I will explain that I am hoping to make a commission for myself in this ‘sale’ and that the rest of you have no interest in the balloons and were outraged that I dared to use an official meeting to conduct personal business.”
De Covilla cocked an eyebrow. “Admiral, Hargault has been to our homeland. Asking him to believe that personal business is not conducted at official meetings would be much like telling him that in Spain, we do not speak Spanish. He will not believe you.”
