1637: No Peace Beyond the Line

by Eric Flint

  The man, dazed, did not respond to the sound. It took a few moments for his eyes to focus on the captain’s face, then he winced and looked down at his leg. The left tibia was splintered and protruding through a bloody ruin of pulped flesh. He started screaming, staring at the wound, which portended an amputation in his immediate future.

  Lizarazu sighed, held the gun away, reached across his body with his other arm, and backhanded the Dutchman, full force across his face. A cry of surprise, a sudden rise of color, and the heathen’s eyes were back on Lizarazu’s. “Now, again: why are you here?”

  The Dutchman looked around, saw the last white fleck of the south-running sail dip beneath the horizon. “Him. Maybe. I think.”

  “What? What do you mean, him? The man in the boat?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. Please!” he screamed when Lizarazu pulled his hand back for another blow. “Please! I—we are here to salt fish, yes, but also to meet someone.”

  “To meet someone? Who?”

  “I don’t know—really! Really! Why would I lie? The man we were to meet knew to come here, to look for us. He was supposed to give us a message—a time, date, and place for a meeting.”

  “Who with?”

  “Planters. From Eustatia. Haet. Maybe Musen, too. Please, that’s all I know. Please, please!”

  Lizarazu stood, dusted sand off his hands.

  “What does it mean, sir?” Morca asked.

  Lizarazu shrugged. “Damned if I know. Probably some buggery having to do with contraband or some other nonsense that is of import only among the squalid tent slums these heathens call home. Well, no mind. Any left to question?”

  “No, sir. He was the last. We tortured all of them, as per your orders. He’s the only one who knows anything of interest.”

  Lizarazu nodded. “Well, then, let’s not be late for dinner.”

  “What?” cried the man, who evidently understood Spanish. “You mean to leave me like this? Why? I told you what you wanted! I told you everything I knew! And you’re just going to leave me . . . leave us here? Even after you did this?” His hands floated above his leg, not daring to touch it. “I’ll never walk again!”

  The captain frowned, tilted his head, considering. “You have a point. You should not be burdened by the endless worries of such an infirmity.” He raised his pistol and fired.

  A bloody crater appeared in the center of the man’s forehead. He fell back.

  The dim whimpering of the other Dutch ended abruptly.

  “What about the others?”

  “Gather the slaves; they’ll either bring coin or be useful.”

  “And the others?”

  Cibrian tossed his chin toward the dead Dutchman. “Like him. But hurry up. I’m getting hungry.”

  Chapter 46

  Pitch Lake, Trinidad

  As the dinghy from Orthros ground to a stop on one of the few scree beaches of Trinidad’s southwestern shore, Hugh O’Donnell barely recognized Fort St. Patrick, or for that matter, Pitch Lake. The signs of industry were all about it: shacks, wagons, and pots that looked similar to oversized tryworks from whaling ships but were not. And there were barrels, and barrels, and more barrels.

  As Hugh threw a leg over the dinghy’s bow, Kevin O’Bannon was there to offer him a hand. Hugh took it and smiled. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, Major!”

  Unflappable O’Bannon lived up to his reputation; he raised an eyebrow. “One foot out of the boat and already he’s handing out promotions. Good to have you back, Lord O’Donnell.”

  “That ‘Lord’ nonsense must stop. Colonel is enough.”

  O’Rourke muttered darkly as he swung his leg over the other side. “Colonel is enough for military use.”

  “So says my keeper,” Hugh laughed. “Show me what fine heights of industry you’ve reached in my absence.”

  O’Bannon did so. The originally simple fort had been improved by the extension of a sea-facing ravelin from its eastern side and a lunette that curled down and around to protect against any flank attack that followed along that same shore. The last of the tents and sheds had been converted into barracks and the first of the barracks had undergone their final transmogrifications into two-story blockhouses. However, the big new sea-facing outer walls that would screen the fort from slightly beyond its western palisade all the way to the start of the ravelin on the east weren’t really walls yet. They were just—well, mounds of dirt.

  Hugh stood before those mounds and rubbed his chin. “Well. Major, it was my understanding that you expected this to be ready by now.”

  “An’ sure it would have been. But you left other orders that unexpectedly prevented that.”

  Hugh frowned. “Did I, now?”

  “Aye, sir, though I have had much reason to doubt you ever imagined such a conflict of intents might arise.”

  Hugh waited, then: “You’ll not be keeping me in suspense much longer, I’m hoping?”

  “No, sir. It was, er, well, your most important directive, actually. Not so much an order as the most basic requirement of our mission here.”

  Hugh felt his eyebrows rise. “Relations with the natives? Don’t tell me that McGillicuddy couldn’t help exercising his strange charms upon the local ladies?”

  “No, sir. Not this time, at any rate. No friction between us at all. Except over building these outer walls. Which we stopped right quick.”

  Hugh felt his eyebrows descend into a frown. “The Nepoia were averse to our having walls?”

  “Well, no, sir. It wasn’t the having of them that rubbed ’em wrong, sir. Like I said, it was the building of them.”

  “O’Bannon, you’re a great man for decisive action and clear orders, but you’re not bringing those fine traits to this conversation. What, specifically, are they objecting to? Are we digging on sacred ground?”

  “They’ve no problem with us shoveling the dirt about, sir. It’s the trees. The cutting of them. They didn’t expect that.”

  Hugh sighed and nodded. “So since you’ve made no great progress on these, I’ll project that it wasn’t something they were willing to chat about with your fine self.”

  “No, sir. Their cacique, Hyarima, said it was a matter to be settled between chiefs. Between friends.”

  Hugh glanced at the executive officer of his tercio. “He said that, did he?”

  “Conveyed in person, and in fluent Spanish, sir.”

  Hugh nodded. “How are you communicating with them, these days?”

  “Well, they only send scouts out here, now. As much to say hello as keep an eye on us, I think. I’ll say this, though; Hyarima has turned the game right around on the Arawak, he has. Now it’s the Nepoia who own most of the island, and the Arawak who are huddled in the southwest.”

  “So faster if we send an advice packet over to Port-of-Spain, then?”

  “Almost certainly so, my Lo—Colonel.”

  “Then send a runner down to the Orthros. They’re to carry this message to the Nepoia, to the immediate attention of my friend Hyarima. Be sure they say that, mind you: my friend Hyarima.”

  “I’ve the sense of its significance, sir. What else?”

  “Just that I look forward to discussing the trees and other matters that friends may wish to raise at a time and place of his choosing. I would be honored and pleased to invite him to Port-of-Spain, but I am sensitive that he may wish our words to be spoken beneath an open sky rather than a Spanish-built roof.”

  “It’s on its way as soon as we’re finished, sir. And judging from Ms. Koudsi’s eager waving back over by the access road to Rig One, I’d say you’re wanted elsewhere.”

  Hugh raised an eyebrow. “It’s Rig One, now?”

  O’Bannon smiled. “There’s been no slouching in your absence, sir. Not by anyone.”

  * * *

  Ann Koudsi and her boyfriend-foreman, Ulrich Rohrbach, were all smiles at Hugh’s approach.

  He affected, with some difficulty, a storm-cloud frown. “And exactly when were you
going to tell me that there’s a second well, Ms. Koudsi?”

  She laughed. “As soon as I knew. The signs were right, but it sent out a lot of high-pressure gas early in the digging. And with cable rigs like the ones we’re using here”—she waggled her hand in a gesture of uncertainty—“I’m not confident that reading the spoor will tell us what might be coming next.”

  “You mean, not like the rotary rig that’s en route to Louisiana, currently?”

  Ann’s smile dropped away. “Who told you?”

  Hugh laughed. “Well, as it happens, you did. Just now.”

  “What? Why you—” But she was smiling. “When did you know?”

  “As I said, just now. But for anyone who’s at meetings where ship movements are discussed, ’twas quite clear that Eddie and Tromp were occasionally shuffling information about and changing topics. F’rinstance, last year Courser departs the fleet, before we’re in sight of St. Eustatia. And then nary a peep out of her. But also, no report. A strange silence, if a ship of that importance was thought lost. But if not, then where is she and what is she up to? And then this year, her sister ship Harrier escorts us part of the way down and then disappears into the west. And a day later, Patentia and another jacht go off on their own merry way. In the same direction.

  “Now if that wasn’t enough, my dearest godmother, who near as raised me as any one living person did, sent me the occasional telegram last fall of a project in Germany that she hears tell of. Something regarding a different kind of drill. A bit hushed, as it were. And then, just before Christmas passed, all the whispering stops. So do the occasional updates from, well, shall we say, ‘interested parties.’”

  Ulrich almost smiled. “That is a very interesting synonym for ‘spies,’ Lord O’Donnell.”

  “It does have a much a prettier sound to it, doesn’t it? And Ulrich, if you don’t start calling me Hugh, I’ll be telling Ann about your scandalous reputation among the ladies back home. Heartbroken, every one.”

  For the slimmest sliver of a moment, Ann fell for it. “Okay, okay, Hugh,” she said through a chuckle. “So you know about the other half of the oil project.”

  “I just know that it exists. And the secret is safe with me. Because I can well understand why you don’t wish it bruited about. Sounds to be in the backyard of my old Spanish employers, I’d wager, given what I read of oil discoveries along North America’s Gulf Coast.”

  Ann nodded. “So: are you going to tell Tromp and Eddie, or should I?”

  Hugh thought. “You, I think. If there are any ‘interested parties’ of the other side getting a peek at our communications, they’d be watching me more closely for messages of military significance than you. No insult intended.”

  “None taken, and better you in their sights than me! Now, come take a look at the new rig.”

  * * *

  When they reached it, Hugh noticed that while the drill was mechanically identical to Rig One, the layout was slightly different. As Anne had explained shortly after arriving on Trinidad, it was a certainty that they’d make their biggest mistakes with the first rig. That’s where they’d come to know its mechanical idiosyncracies, but also get their first practical acquaintance with the soil, the rock, the plants, the water table: all the things that make drilling different from place to place. Rig Two’s layout suggested that all that knowledge had been implemented.

  In addition to the crew currently working the rig, a young man of better than middle height and solid build was watching the activity, back to them.

  Ann called to him. “Phil?”

  The fellow turned, smiled—an easy expression—and sauntered over, sticking out his hand. “Hello, I’m Phil Jenkins. I’m guessing that you’re Colonel O’Donnell.”

  Before Hugh could reply, Ann added. “But he prefers ‘Lord O’Donnell.’”

  Hugh turned on her. “Now, Ann Koudsi, that’s no laughing matter! I’ll have you know—”

  But Ulrich intervened. “I think everyone has evened the score, ja? Phil, Ann is correct. He is the Earl of Tyrconnell.”

  “Which,” Hugh added, “having now been said, may now be as quickly forgotten. I’m pleased to meet you, Phil. You’re another scientist?”

  Phil chuckled. “Not hardly, Your Lor—uh, Colonel Tyrconnell. Wait; no—”

  “See?” Hugh remonstrated, shaking a histrionic finger in Ann’s direction, “you’ve confused the lad beyond all sensible cogitation. See here, now, Mr. Jenkins: let’s make this simpler, yes? I’m Hugh. You’re Phil. Easy enough?”

  “Yeah. Uh, yes . . . Hugh.”

  “Splendid. See?” Hugh grinned at Ann. “So much better.” He turned back to Phil. “So if you are not one of Grantville’s scientists, what’s your intentions here, then?”

  Phil shrugged. “Trained to help run a rig, is all.” As if an afterthought, he added, “And I’ve been here before, so I thought this would be kinda fun.”

  Hugh smiled. “I knew your name sounded familiar! You’re the fellow who came here—what? Two years ago, now?”

  “Wow,” said Phil, “Lookit: I’m famous!” He laughed at the notion.

  Hugh grinned. “Well, famous enough that Don Michael McCarthy—Junior, that is—had full knowledge of everything you reported about Pitch Lake. And about your travels in general, by the way.” He frowned. “But it seems like a young explorer like yourself might have ambitions in addition to working oil machinery, no?”

  Phil shrugged. “I don’t know that I’m what you’d call a really ambitious guy, Lor—Hugh. But everything was, well, kinda boring after I traveled here. It was weird, going back to high school, hanging out and kicking around Grantville again. Which had really gone through some changes while I was gone. So when it was getting close to graduation, people started asking me what I wanted to do, what I was interested in, what jazzed me.”

  Hugh nodded, realizing for the first time, the profound differences in the vernacular and idiom of young up-timers.

  “And you know what I realized?” Phil continued. “I always wound up talking about what I did or saw back here. So,” he finished with a shrug, “I learned how to operate a rig. And here I am.”

  Hugh smiled. “Yes, but when you did all that talking, what were you talking about? Did you always see yourself coming back here to drill for oil?”

  “Naw, that was just a way to get back. What I talked about . . . ? Well, you know the Dutch ship I sailed with was looking for rubber, right? And so I got interested in that.” His eyes opened a little wider and he started speaking more quickly. “So, did you know that all the way back in 1445, this guy named Prince Henry the Navigator set up a trading post on Arguin Island, which is just off the coast of Africa? He was able to get gum arabic there and send it to Portugal. But they didn’t really know what to do with the stuff, I guess. Neither did the Spanish, because it only took off when the Dutch came in and took over the trade. So I started wondering, ‘Hey, if the Dutch are already looking for gum arabic, you can be darn sure there’s going to be money in it. I mean, do you know how many up-time machines really need rubber?” He pointed at Rig Two. “Do you know how much easier it would be to make that cable drill? Heck, if we had enough rubber, I’ll bet Grantville would have tried to develop a rotary rig by now. It would be so much easier to do with rubber, and it would be so much easier to get to the oil really quickly.”

  At the end, Hugh and Ann were exchanging raised eyebrows behind Phil’s head, which was clearly awash with images of personal memories, more distant history, and what might come to pass.

  Ann was the first to lean forward, grinning. “Well, someone’s been doing their homework. Sounds like the idea of rubber really got you thinking hard. Maybe thinking about whether farming gum arabic would work here, now?”

  Phil nodded. “Yeah, I thought about it some. I mean, it really made the Spanish and Portuguese and the Dutch rich, but that’s because all the work was done by slaves. So without that, it might not be very profitable. But then again, rubber’s one
of those things that you may never miss if you’ve never had any, but boy, once you do have rubber, you start realizing how many things you just can’t make unless you have it. And with Grantville jump-starting those kinds of industries all over the place, I just kinda thought, you know, before long, the price might go up a lot higher than it was back in the up-time seventeenth century.” He looked around Rig Two’s jungle clearing, as if he expected to spot people just within the tree line. “Do you think the local Indians—I mean, native peoples, would want to farm it?”

  Ann shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. I kind of think not. But if it’s valuable enough, and they don’t have to lease a lot of their lands for European growers, then maybe it might work.”

  Phil nodded. “You know, that would be kind of cool. I guess I always kind of figured, or at least hoped, that I’d come back here. And I gotta say, it just feels right.”

  “Why?” asked Ulrich.

  Phil scratched his head. “Not sure, exactly. But back home, well, if you’re an up-timer, everybody expects that you’re going to be a whiz with gadgets. Or science. Or something else that people can make money from. Because almost everyone from here expects that you’ll have some kind of up-time skill or ideas that will be really valuable.” He shrugged. “That’s not me. But I liked traveling here. And I was thinking about going into forestry anyway.”

  Hugh smiled sadly. “I’m sorry to say that your first task in our forests might be to help us cut down trees.”

  Jenkins shrugged again. “Suits me. But why?”

  “We’ll need them to expand our fortifications.”

  “Wood won’t hold out cannonballs, er, Colonel.”

  “You are very right. But I don’t want the wood to stop cannon balls. I want the wood to shore up berms of hard-packed dirt that will stop cannon balls.”

  Jenkins grinned. It was a ready and guileless expression. “When do we start?”

  Hugh sighed. “Just as soon as I get the owners’ permission.”

  “The Arawaks? They’re not likely to give you permission to breathe.”