by Eric Flint
And so, at least in the greater scope of things, the Musens had won. It would never be known who had thrown the brick that led to Edel Mund’s incineration, nor would the near-murder of one of their slaves ever be called to account.
She heard the front door open softly. “Yes?” Anne Cathrine called, walking back toward the infirmary’s main room. “Is your condition urgent, or can it wait until morning? Dr. Brandão is not—”
She stopped; the seamstress was in the room, closing the door quietly behind her. Anne Cathrine was sure of the answer even as she asked, “Are you unwell or injured?”
“No, Lady Anne Cathrine, I am not.” She stood, uncertain. Glanced at the door behind her.
Anne Cathrine took a step forward. “You were a great help today. It . . . it saved a life. Maybe more than one.”
The seamstress nodded nervously. “I know. I saw.”
“You—?”
“I followed your friend. When she started running. Just outside of town. In the same direction you did.”
Anne Cathrine sat, gestured for the seamstress to do the same. “You see a great many things,” she commented.
The seamstress remained standing, shook her head. “Too many.”
“What do you mean?”
The young woman’s eyes shone, although the only illumination was the moonlight that came through the open storm shutters. “I am going away.”
Anne Cathrine, struck by the sudden change of topic, paused . . . long enough to sound composed and sage when she finally said, “I am sorry to learn that. Will you be back?”
Again, the expected answer: “No.” Then: “Before I leave, it is important that I tell you something. About the men, the families, you are dealing with.”
Anne Cathrine waited again, then said. “Go on.”
“You must beware of them. You must be more careful. They are desperate. They will do anything.”
“The Musens, or—?”
“All of them.” The seamstress took a deep breath. “I am quite sure they were bribed, or promised something, to remain in their homes when the Kalinago attacked last year.”
Anne Cathrine did not remember getting to her feet when she spoke again. “That is a very serious accusation. Why do you believe this?”
“I do not believe it; I know it. Because I was the . . . the intermediary.”
“You? You were—are—the liaison between them and—?”
“No, no. I simply pass messages between them and those who contact them.”
“They have more than one, er, ‘contact’?”
The seamstress nodded. “Two, now. But last year, just the Frenchman.”
“There was a Frenchman here, conspiring with the slaveholders openly? Through you?”
She shook her head vigorously. “I only passed messages. Through clothes. In the hems. I cannot even be sure there were bribes. I only know the messages came from St. Christopher.”
“And the man who brought them was French?”
“Different men brought them from St. Christopher, different men took them back there. I had never seen them before, and I never saw any of them a second time. They were Dutch, English, of mixed race.”
“So how do you know that the person who bribed the slaveholders was French?”
“Because I was told that, under no circumstances, should I take commissions for passing secret messages from the English of St. Christopher’s. Specifically, to avoid any dealing with representatives of Governor Warner or his associates.”
“After the attack, do you have any knowledge of what became of this presumed Frenchman?”
“I do not, but just recently, messages are once again being exchanged that employ the same set of precautions as he used last year. That is all the information I have that may, may, pertain to the Frenchman. And I know better than to ask questions to try to learn more.”
Well, that is sensible enough. “You say that you have a new—a second source of commissions, now?”
The seamstress nodded, seemed to be growing even more nervous.
“So, how did this new, ah, employer come to know of you? Through the Frenchman, do you think?”
“Again, I cannot say.” The seamstress shivered, although the night was warm. “And it is perilous to ask. But this contact knew of the services I had provided before the Kalinago attacked. They asked me to do the same for them.” She reflected a moment, moved her feet restlessly. “Well, not exactly the same. They do not ask me to pass messages. They have only asked me to send them confidential messages. Of my own.”
Anne Cathrine frowned. “What do you mean, messages of your own?”
“They asked me to . . . to observe. Things. Here on St. Eustatia. To report what I see in the bay. Unusual visitors and travelers. When ships or soldiers come or go.”
Now it was Anne Cathrine who experienced a chill that ran the length of her body. “Anything else?”
The seamstress shrugged. “They asked me to describe any maps or documents left out, any that I could see easily. I read, you know.” Her chin came up proudly. “Three languages, and a bit of a fourth. The priests taught me. Back near Olinda.”
“With that skill, I suspect you may yet have other opportunities of employment.”
“If I was a man, yes, but men do not like going to women for information, for understanding, they do not possess. Not even for something as simple as translation.”
Anne Cathrine risked closing the distance between them by another step. “Why are you revealing this now?”
The seamstress looked down, shuffled her feet. “Several reasons. I fear being caught; I have always feared that, but more now. And weeks ago, they asked me to start copying things. Mostly maps. Then they asked me to steal some. And once they are missed, the owners will start wondering who might have taken them.”
“Surely you knew that when they asked.”
The seamstress nodded. “Yes, but once you start down this path, you may not stop. They offered more money for me to steal things, but it . . . well, it is really an order. If you say no, they worry that you may be changing your mind. And that if you change your mind, you might reveal what you have been doing.” She shivered again. “They pay well for silence. The punishment for not staying silent . . . ” Her concluding shrug was grimly eloquent. Before Anne Cathrine could ask another careful question, the seamstress looked up. “But there is another reason I am revealing what I have done. It is because of what you have done.”
Anne Cathrine blinked. “Me? And what have I done?”
“Everything that I wished I had.” The seamstress leaned forward, eyes rising to meet Anne Cathrine’s and then falling away again. “Last year, I saw you at the barricades, defending the town when it seemed there was no hope left. Then I saw you at The Whipping Square. And then I saw you today. I never saw a noble lady who fought so hard for those who have no titles, no hope of ever being much more than they were born. And I . . . I have been paid by those who put and keep my own people in chains.” She looked up again, eyes bright. “I cannot keep taking their coin. But the only person I could bring myself to tell is you. You deserve to know.”
Anne Cathrine reached toward her carefully. “Where do you live? Where may I find you, before you depart?”
“My lady, you may not. I have sold what belongings I may, and will take ship before the sun is up.”
Anne Cathrine frowned; it was exceedingly rare for a ship to begin a journey at night. Unless—“Are you leaving with one of the contacts of those who paid you?”
“No, lady. I can only survive so long as I remain unfound by my employers and their agents.”
“Then where—?”
“Good lady, these are large seas with many islands. I have had three names before the one I used here. Taking another is of no consequence to me. I just pray it is the last. Please do not look for me, nor cause the admiral to send ships in pursuit of any that set sail tonight or tomorrow. It would be my death, and I have told you all I know.”
Anne Cathrine did not want her to go, realized that there was an opportunity—for both the seamstress and the allied nations in what she had revealed: “We could protect you, here. Indeed, if these employers still believed that you were working for them—”
“No, lady. There may be some who thrive telling lies, and are happy to grow wealthy through them. I am not such a person. And to tell lies in two different directions? No. I cannot.” She looked down, shaking her head as if that negation might erase all that she had done. “I did not seek this employment. But after leaving Recife, my sister and mother succumbed to a fever. To survive on my own, I had to choose between two mortal sins: lying or harlotry.” She shrugged. “I chose this. I thought it was safer. It is not. Nor did I see how it would become a tool whereby others—so many others—were killed.”
“And now?”
She shrugged again. “And now I have money and have learned a respectable skill. It is one with which I may find employment anywhere. Garments, sails, even sacks: wherever two pieces of cloth require joining, there I may earn enough to survive. There are many such places within a week’s sail of here. And more than that I may not tell you.”
“Thank you, Mistress . . . ” Anne Cathrine trailed to a halt, smiled. “I still do not know your name.”
“As is best. And thank you, kind lady, for allowing me to depart.”
Anne Cathrine tried to think of some appeal that might get her to change her mind, to remain to bear witness against the men she’d named and the enemies who had employed her. But those nascent schemes faltered before Anne Cathrine’s deep reluctance to jeopardize another woman because of deeds that she might never have committed, had she not run afoul of the machinations of men.
And by the time that inner struggle had been resolved, the seamstress had fled out the door and into the night.
Chapter 50
Near Nezpique Bayou, Louisiana
Larry Quinn stared at the tall rotary drill rig. He listened, one ear cocked in its direction.
“You hear that?” asked Mason Chaffin, the project manager, his eyes wide.
Larry heard what sounded like a subterranean granite whale suppressing a belch.
“There! That! You hear it?” This time, the question came from Jennifer Garrett, who’d led the final survey. Morgan Hart, who oversaw most of the hands-on construction and running of the rig, was leaning over her, grinning wildly.
Larry stared at his fellow up-timers, who, until now, had mostly complained about insects when they weren’t complaining about having too few hands to move all the gear for the rig and to construct the derrick. Now, they were suddenly like kids at Christmas, standing fifty yards away from the drill site.
The granite whale released a second, more modest burp.
“You mean that?” Larry asked. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.” Mason seemed disappointed in Larry’s response.
“Well . . . damn, guys: where’s the excitement in that?”
Mason, who’d been a surveyor and civil engineer up-time, sighed. “Larry, when it comes to oil wells, you don’t want excitement. Kind of like your time in the military. Excitement is the sign that something is going wrong.”
“Oh,” said Larry. “Oh,” he repeated because he’d never thought about it, and because he was still kind of disappointed. “So . . . no gusher?” A thrilling, Hollywood montage of fountains of oil, blasting upward toward wide-open Texas skies streamed unbidden past his mind’s eye.
“No gusher,” Mason grumbled, wiping the back of his neck with a sopping handkerchief, the funk of bayou foliage stronger than the faint petroleum smell. “We don’t want a gusher. Anything but that. Before coming over here, did you ever read about the disasters connected with gushers?”
Larry shook his head. “You mean, like, fires?”
Jennifer nodded; she seemed the most ready to forgive Larry for his lack of excitement. “Fires. Major environmental damage. And so, so wasteful. You’ve heard of Spindletop, the Texas oil field a couple hundred miles in that direction?” Her index finger jabbed westward. “Totally uncontrolled gusher. That was what they—well, now ‘we’—call a blowout. Didn’t have a way to cap it until the pressure let up by spewing out oil—to the tune of one hundred thousand barrels a day. For nine days. That’s probably more oil, right there, than we’ve pulled out of Weitze field since we got here.”
Morgan nodded. “Yep. That’s why we’ve been going so slowly. Particularly since Tuesday.”
Larry had a vague recollection that they’d told him something about garblegarblegarble and the well on that day. “So, what happened on Tuesday, again?”
Mason’s brow was a straight, disapproving line. “We started getting some sand and then a little oil in the drilling mud. And then the drill string got lighter.”
“What?”
Morgan took over. “It’s the early sign of what’s called the ‘kick.’” He used his hands to demonstrate: one fist stacked on the other, the top pushing down while the bottom pushed up. “The upward pressure being exerted by the oil and gas and anything else down there resists the weight of the string—the drill shaft—that’s pushing down from the top. So up here, that makes the string seem lighter.”
Mason couldn’t seem to keep his grump going; his voice sounded excited again, even if his face didn’t show it. “When that started happening, we were pretty sure we were getting close. So Morgan did a machinery check, made sure the blowout preventers were all in place and ready. And now, finally, the oil is starting to come in. We’ve got the pressure balanced pretty well, which is the real trick at this stage. The first few hundred barrels are likely to have a lot of junk in them; sand, grit, water. Probably no salt, though. The few records we have say they never hit salt here in the Jennings field.” He turned and put his hands on Larry’s shoulders. “But let me put this in terms that are meaningful to you, son. Your whole secret mission to the Gulf Coast and all the obstacles you overcame? Well: mission accomplished.”
Well, hell, when you put it like that . . . Larry smiled. “Well, yeah: I’d drink to that!”
If only they had something to drink . . .
Karl Klemm’s excited, if distant, voice was the buzzkill that ended his coalescing vision of a cold beer. “Herr Major!”
Larry turned. Karl was as soaked as if he’d just climbed out of the bayou. Sweaty place, Louisiana. You couldn’t even tell it was fall.
The young German ran up, breathless. “You must come to the communications shack, Herr Major.”
“Jeez, Karl, when are you going to learn to call me Larry?”
“I am sorry. It is difficult. The way I was raised . . . well, I will try. Larry.” When he uttered the name, it looked like he was swallowing one of the monstrous palmetto bugs that made Larry feel like he was living on the set of some creepy sci-fi flick. “You must come! Now.”
Larry shrugged and started moving, felt the others fall in behind him. “Lead on, Karl.”
* * *
When they were all done staring at the radio in disbelief, Larry asked. “How the hell are we even getting these signals? We were out of range from halfway across the Gulf. Where the hell is that coming from?”
The wireless operator turned, nodded a salute, shrugged, went back to trying to find the precise frequency.
Karl crossed his arms, thinking, then leaned over the operator’s shoulder. “How many repeats?” he asked.
“Twenty. Sometimes we don’t get half. It usually takes us about ten of their sends to build the complete message.”
Larry frowned. “So, what’s the best guess? That The Quill is boosting the signal, but it’s still just barely enough to reach us?”
Karl shook his head. His arms were still crossed, a frown still fixed on his face. “No. I think not.”
Larry waited for him to think some more, then rolled his eyes. “Karl, what’s going on between your ears? What’s happening here?”
“What’s—? Oh, I beg your pardon. I was con
sidering.”
“Considering what?”
“Apologies. I shall explain. The signal is not coming from the St. Eustatius array.”
“What?” Larry and the drilling team chorused.
“There are several indicators of this. Firstly, while I have not seen the array myself, I am aware of its basic properties. While its range could be boosted, I am skeptical if it could be done to a degree that would allow it to reach us here.”
“Because it’s aimed at Europe, not us?”
“Precisely, Herr Major. This is a crude analogy, but the power that would need to be added to produce a geometric increase in the signal as it would be received in Vlissingen would, at best, barely cause an arithmetic increase in the signal strength we receive here.”
“So maybe they built a new extension, on the west-facing slope of The Quill?” Jennifer guessed.
“Possible, but unlikely. It would be an immense undertaking, very expensive. More importantly, it is not needed at this time. Rather, I think something much simpler and—for now—advantageous has been done.”
Larry leaned forward. “Stop the mystery theater, Karl: what’s been done?”
“I suspect that Admiral Tromp and Commodore Cantrell have adopted the expedient of a dedicated relay ship.”
Quinn smacked his forehead. “Holy shit, of course.” Then he frowned. “Wait: so why didn’t they do this before?”
Karl gestured to the begrimed experts from the drilling team. “It is implicit in the news they brought, Herr Major. This idea had been raised before, but there were insufficient ships to spare. There were not even enough for basic shipping or defense.”
He nodded at the group again. “However, the news that arrived with the rig, of La Flota and cooperation with distant islands like Bermuda and Barbados, suggests that the shortage of hulls is at an end. And wires strung along the tall masts of one large galleon could accomplish what we are witnessing today.” He shrugged. “With a little time and a map, I could narrow down the area in which they are probably operating.”
