1637: No Peace Beyond the Line

by Eric Flint

  But de Viamonte was nodding. “Hargault does not need to believe the admiral, Eugenio. He only needs to be able to claim, truthfully, that this is in fact what he was told. That way, if the transaction is discovered, the responsibility begins and ends with Don Fadrique Álvarez de Toledo, God save his soul.” He raised his glass toward his friend.

  “So,” Gallardo asked, looking at the others, “we mean to get balloons from the French, rather than from the crown?”

  “Yes,” Álvarez answered, “not that it should make much difference, because that is obviously where the Crown vouchsafed the one lost with La Flota. We are simply using our own funds and our own initiative to get far more of them, and far more swiftly.”

  “I know, sir, but—”

  “Gallardo.” The governor’s voice was stern. “I share your reservations. And I suspect no one at this table has greater reservations than the admiral himself. But he did what a military leader must sometimes do: seize a sudden and unexpected opportunity. Is there risk? Always. But if this works—well, it is as he said: then he, and all of us, will be lauded as heroes. But I will ensure that it is he who is recognized as the architect, that it was he who was willing to take a bold gamble to change the fortunes of our empire. He did no less than the conquistadors.”

  “Well,” Fadrique muttered, “if the histories are accurate, this involved a lot less dysentery and a lot fewer insects.”

  The laughter was more than polite, but was still subdued. “This is still serious business,” de Covilla said to no one in particular.

  “Yes,” de Viamonte agreed. “So serious that I believe we must speak to Admiral Antonio de Curco y San Joan de Olacabal once again.”

  “As well as the other La Flota survivors who were rescued with him?”

  “No, Eugenio. This time, we shall speak to him alone.”

  * * *

  So now you’re trying to make me nervous, Juan? Álvarez thought. But he doubted it, in actuality: the governor seemed deadly serious as he had de Covilla brief the low-level grandee-made-sailor. Whatever he meant to do by bringing back the one surviving admiral of La Flota for a second interview was unclear, but Fadrique was the first to admit that if his own style was to take risks and seize on sudden opportunities, Juan’s approach was invariably serious, well considered, and without logical flaws. So he had something in mind. But what?

  De Covilla was finishing the summary that had not been shared with the survivors, lest it impact their reports of the battle off Dominica and what they observed and did on their often-perilous voyages back to Spanish territory. “So, considered in conjunction with what His Excellency de Murga has relayed to us about the battle and assessment of Curaçao, we have been confirmed in our speculations. Tromp was not based out of Curaçao. In fact, he was never there.

  “Rather, informers on St. Eustatia confirm that it is a, and quite probably the, center of Dutch power. They also confirm that the attack on Trinidad was apparently motivated by the island’s oil resources, which have not only been accessed for local use, but are being shipped back to Europe. De Murga’s fleet is moving to retake Trinidad and, if feasible, begin to operate the oil extraction ourselves.”

  De Curco y San Joan, his skin still peeling from the horrible sunburn he suffered before being rescued off Puerto Rico, frowned. “Is de Murga’s fleet strong enough for that task? Several galleons detailed to protect the Tierra Firme fleet along half its voyage were to have permanently remained with the Cartagena fleet. I suspect that His Excellency may have considered them integral to success at Trinidad. Is he still confident he can take it without those ships?”

  “He expressed no doubt over the outcome. And the knowledge that it is not the primary power center of the Dutch and their USE allies makes him just that much more confident of victory.”

  De Curco y San Joan nodded, but was still frowning. “What I do not understand, though, is how you or anyone plans to prevail against their steamships. They are too fast to catch. And they are too deadly to close with, anyhow. How do we defeat such enemies?”

  Álvarez shrugged. “Until we have machinery like theirs, we cannot do so. Not with our current ships and conventional tactics, at any rate. Every time we have tried cases with them we have lost.”

  De Curco y San Joan shook his head; his voice was almost a groan. “So we cede the seas to them? Everything is lost?”

  “No. But everything must change.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Fadrique gestured out the window. “Do you see those three galleons currently in the ways, almost completed?” de Curco y San Joan nodded. “Those are the last galleons that will be built in Santo Domingo in the foreseeable future. But I suspect they are among the very last of their kind that will know the touch of the waves. Ever.”

  Flakes of shedding skin flew off de Curco y San Joan, he started so violently. “What?”

  Álvarez shrugged. “It is merely one of the inevitable consequences of fully acknowledging, and then acting upon, my earlier assertion: if we only change our tactics and objectives, we cannot win. We can only delay the inevitable. In order to win, we must reinvent the way we make war here in the New World.”

  The younger admiral looked as if he wanted to move to the other side of the room. “This is all very good to say in a council chamber, but it is easier said than done. How we may wage war here is largely determined by the ways our colonies must operate to serve Spain.”

  “Yes. So that must change, too.”

  “Such words could easily be mistaken for treason.” From the tone of his voice, it sounded more than likely that de Curco y San Joan was making that very mistake.

  Álvarez folded his hands and squared his arms and shoulders to the mirrorlike tabletop. “Tell me, does this sound like treason? I will do anything—anything—to protect Spain and see her victorious in the New World.”

  “Those are the words of a true and devoted son of Spain.”

  “Well, then let me explain why ending the construction of galleons, and all the ‘traitorous’ choices and changes that it entails, is the only way we can hope to achieve that glorious outcome for our king and our country.

  “You have seen how slow our galleons are compared to our enemies’. And not just the steamships, but almost all of them. Until now, this was not a great concern. Our galleons were stout enough to withstand most Dutch guns. They were floating forts, equipped with cannon that meant death to any who tarried beneath them too long.

  “But now, they are simply very big, very slow, and so, very easy targets for the up-time guns. So we are now laying down smaller, faster ships. Here and in Cuba. I suspect de Murga is doing the same in Cartagena, but given his run-ins with the Inquisition, he has more eyes eagerly scrutinizing his activities, eager to get him recalled to Spain. Either into retirement or a grave, depending upon the severity of his violations. The point is, we must build ships that are faster, smaller, harder to hit.”

  De Curco y San Joan shook his head. “Pataches will not win battles.”

  Fool! Of course not! “I am not speaking of pataches, but galleoncetes and more crucially, fragatas.”

  The other man shook his head again. “Even the largest of those hulls have fewer guns, and you cannot mount our heaviest pieces in them. The recoil would shake them to pieces, and their gundecks haven’t the beam to accommodate their full range of motion. Our forty-two-pounders would be crashing, cascabel to cascabel, at the centerline. It would be ruinous in every way.”

  Álvarez nodded. “Which is why we must follow the Dutch model: more guns with less throw weight and so less recoil. And that fire far more rapidly. However, enough of this. There is ample reason for urgency, for risk-taking, but not for despair.” Not yet. “We have other means of defeating our foes.”

  “Such as?”

  De Viamonte gestured on the map that was painted on the wall that faced the bay. “We have long familiarity with these seas, these lands, their weather. The Dutch are comparative newcomers. The up-
timers only know what’s in their history books. We have begun systematically examining our knowledge to identify useful items that we know but they do not. Most will prove useless, but others could be decisive.

  “In the meantime, it is crucial that we acquire two of the technologies upon which they rely but are simple enough to be produced by Spain currently. The first are the balloons, which enable them to see us so far in advance that they may avoid us at will or engage any target of opportunity they happen upon.”

  “I presume the other technology is the radio,” de Curco y San Joan added quietly.

  “Yes. We sent our request for them directly to Olivares and the others who are our direct superiors. Did you happen to hear if any were included in La Flota, or if any news of our request escaped the labyrinth of the Escorial to reach outside ears?”

  De Curco y San Joan pursed his lips. “I cannot be sure if radios were secreted in any of the holds of La Flota, but I doubt it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because those responsible for the fiscal success of the fleet were particularly attentive to the possibility of acquiring radios, both for use and trade. Given their role in the reversals you experienced last year, it was assumed that some of these devices would certainly be shipped and a fine profit made. But all inquiries met with silence. Stony silence.”

  Gallardo frowned. “Any idea why? Sir?”

  “None, although there are those I could ask.” De Curco y San Joan smiled wanly. “That is, if I dared to return.”

  “So,” de Viamonte probed, “you fear your reception, back in Spain?”

  “Not in Spain, not even with Philip.”

  “Ah,” Álvarez muttered, “Olivares, then.”

  De Curco y San Joan actually shivered. “Sir, I am an admiral of merchant ships. I haven’t your expertise, as is surely obvious. I was, to be frank, fourth down in the actual chain of command responsible for responding to attacks. However, I doubt anyone could survive an engagement against the up-time steamships, particularly without advance knowledge of their capabilities. To say nothing of their proximity.

  “Yet, for this blame not to descend upon Olivares’s head, it must be shifted to another. I am the ranking officer remaining. And Olivares can easily assure that his story of what occurred, and of my ‘culpability,’ will be the only one ever heard. And certainly, the only one recorded.”

  Álvarez sighed. “So the blame will descend upon you. Or more narrowly, upon your neck.”

  “I am a dead man,” de Curco y San Joan concluded with a nod.

  “No,” murmured de Viamonte, “you are not.”

  The other man’s answering smile was sickly and rueful, but also the slightest bit hopeful. “I mean no disrespect, Your Excellency, but Olivares does not hold you in such high regard that you might successfully intercede on my behalf.”

  “Let us speak plainly. Olivares loathes me. So I plan no attempt at intercession.”

  “Then how in the name of our Holy Mother do you imagine you may forestall, let alone prevent, my appointment with the headsman?”

  “By making sure that for now, you are already dead.”

  De Curco y San Joan blinked. “Your Excellency, I do not understand.”

  Álvarez regretted his occasionally earthy outbursts, but this one caught him by surprise. “Oh, I like this!” he guffawed. “I like this a great deal.”

  De Viamonte glanced at de Covilla. “Eugenio, we will need to emend the report you are crafting in my name regarding what we know of the loss of La Flota. You are to add this to the beginning of the roster of losses we have estimated.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “That since the great majority of the crews and passengers of La Flota remain unaccounted for, we cannot know if the information we relay will be definitive. Logically, others may yet be discovered alive who will add, or give additional context to, it.”

  “Very good, sir. Anything else?”

  “Yes. You will include the names of all the civilian survivors that we know from the accounts of those who have reached us by small and makeshift boats. However, you will not include any names that came to light solely through our conversations with Admiral de Curco y San Joan and his companions.”

  De Covilla smiled. “Because they will now be listed as missing without a trace, after setting off to reach Puerto Rico?”

  De Curco y San Joan’s jaw dropped.

  De Viamonte was still crafting the revised letter. “Yes, and add that storms, pirates, and enemy forces were all reported in those seaways at that time, and so, may have either delayed or made an end of them.”

  “It appears I shall not hang alone,” Álvarez said with a broad smile.

  “But . . . but, why?” de Curco y San Joan stammered.

  “Firstly,” de Viamonte replied calmly, “because if I can save a true servant of Spain from Olivares, I shall. Also, because you clearly have contacts in the Escorial who can tell us what is actually transpiring there, yes?”

  He swallowed. “My brother. And my cousin.”

  “Excellent. You also have knowledge and expertise we need right here. And lastly, I can be sure that you will not speak of our activities, because as you pointed out, your mere existence marks you for death.” He smiled. “Until you may resurface as a hero of the Empire. Is this agreeable?”

  * * *

  No sooner had de Covilla escorted the weak-kneed de Curco y San Joan out of the council chamber than he popped his head back in.

  “We have an unexpected visitor with an unexpected report.”

  “Who?” Álvarez felt it justified that his query came out as a growl, since his belly had started growling at him.

  “Captain Equiluz, who brings information of profound interest, I think.”

  “Equiluz?” de Viamonte wondered aloud. “The fellow who was the primary liaison with our ‘privateers’?”

  “The same, Your Excellency.”

  Equiluz marched in looking somewhat worse for wear. He eyed the wine longingly, but got straight to business. “Captain Cibrian de Lizarazu, commander of our garrison on St. Maarten, reports Dutch claim jumpers have landed on the southeastern extremity of the island and are making intermittent use of the salt flats for curing fish.”

  Gallardo let himself fall against his chair’s backrest. “Are they mad?”

  “It is more likely that they are desperate, Captain. It is unclear, but the use of slaves in the Dutch colonies may be waning, possibly prohibited.”

  “They are mad,” Gallardo concluded. “Has de Lizarazu not driven them into the sea?”

  Being the same rank as Gallardo, Equiluz simply shook his head. “His men were struck with a fever in July. He claims he has not enough left to evict the heretics.”

  “Where are they from? St. Eustatia?”

  “That is the presumption, but that detail was not included. This was one of several dozen reports that were almost overlooked in an intelligence packet being gathered in Puerto Rico.”

  De Viamonte nodded. “From whence you came. And you are still in the clothes from that journey. Correct?”

  Equiluz nodded.

  “And in the course of consulting the files concerning St. Maarten, you came across something else, something that made you feel it necessary to travel here without stopping?”

  “I did, sir. And I suspect it may incline you to send one, or maybe many more, fast ships to that island.”

  “Show us.”

  Equiluz spread out a recent Spanish map of St. Maarten. “Thanks to the generosity and foresight of both Your Excellencies,” he said, nodding to Fadrique and Juan, “I also had ready access to this: a common up-time map of the island. Not suitable for navigation, of course, but as you see, that is what makes it so interesting.”

  They stood and inspected it and, almost in unison, leaned forward sharply. “We are certain—certain—that the current up-time maps are identical to this one?”

  “Thanks to the information that has been coming to us from one of m
y agents with a contact on St. Eustatia, yes, sir. That contact has seen the maps being used by the leadership there. It is identical. In every particular.”

  Álvarez nodded to himself, looked over at Juan. Who was already looking at him. “This could be the decisive piece of superior knowledge that we’ve been looking for.”

  De Viamonte nodded. “My thought exactly. Equiluz, we will require a detailed report on the current conditions of this feature.” He thumped his good index finger down on the map.

  Gallardo was frowning. “Maybe I’m superstitious, but I’m worried about the lack of true hurricanes this season. If the sea decides to make up for that lack . . . ”

  Álvarez clapped him on the shoulder. “Gallardo, you morose old ape, if we get a blow, that is always to our advantage. We can keep building ships here, training crews here. We have a population that will restore our losses so that we may sally forth again. And again.

  “So if a hurricane comes when both our fleet and the enemy’s are at sea, then we must hope that if God cannot spare us, His biggest waves will hit us both. For we can recover those losses. But they cannot.”

  Gallardo shrugged. “Yes. I suppose. But still, this difference between the maps: it makes no sense.”

  De Viamonte compared the maps carefully. “It might make sense . . . if the feature on the up-time map was man-made.”

  De Covilla rubbed his well-manicured chin hairs. “Yes, they could do such a thing. In the up-timers’ world, their nations moved earth and water in most extraordinary projects. They dug a canal from the Gulf to the Pacific. That was a hundred years before their town was whisked away. And in the intervening time, they flew up to the Moon. To think of it! They meant to colonize the Moon!”

  Álvarez shook his head. “Nonsense; it is too hostile. They could not make any use of it nor survive there. That, surely, is why they stopped such flights into space.”

  Juan noticed de Covilla’s awkward glance away. “You know differently, Eugenio?”

  “I only know what I read about the cessation of their flights to the Moon. It was a collection of commentary, not rigorously provable data or an official statement.”