1637: No Peace Beyond the Line

by Eric Flint

  “Good thing we buried five fuses in those bamboo tubes,” murmured Ulrich. “Two of them didn’t even go off.”

  O’Donnell nodded. “And that’s precisely why we laid five, and why we had these lads waiting with their fiery arrows.” He squinted into the rapidly mounting flames. “Any moment now, the Spanish will—”

  Out of the smoke and flame, a roaring—and in some cases, smoking—horde of blackened Spaniards emerged at the charge. Ann had grabbed Ulrich’s sizable bicep before she was aware she was doing so. Even though they were safe behind a murder slit that had been cut between the upright logs of the fort’s palisade, it was a fearsome sight, seeing all those armored men approaching with no thought other than to kill them.

  In the lead trench, Fitzwilliam the marksman turned toward the section of the wall where he obviously knew Hugh was observing.

  “At the second range marker, Fitzwilliam!” O’Donnell shouted. “As we planned!”

  Fitzwilliam nodded, turned, head just barely above the berm fronting his waist-deep trench.

  “‘Range marker’?” Ann echoed.

  Hugh pointed. “Can you see the white-washed stakes facing us, but concealed from the Spanish behind smaller bits of debris?”

  “Yes, now I see them.”

  “Well, when the Spanish reach the second one—”

  Which was the very moment when the bow wave of the charging soldiers reached it. In response, the forty Wild Geese lying in wait behind the first low berm rose high enough to lay upon the berm in a slanted prone position. Each one laid the muzzle of his long rifle into a V-shaped notch in the mound’s rim, formed by two embedded, down-angled shingles.

  The Spanish came on another six paces before the muskets discharged in a long, rolling sputter. A surprising number of the first rank of Spaniards staggered or fell in their tracks, most groaning, a few ominously still. But the wave, although broken, continued onward, albeit hesitantly.

  That was when the occupants of the second trench, mostly Dutch gunners, heaved no fewer than ten different kinds of swivel guns up into the waiting mounts, tripods, and pintel posts. The lead rank of Spanish slowed. Having reached fifty yards, they now had a clear view of just what it was they were facing.

  At the same moment that a few of their veteran sergeants screamed to resume the charge, the swivel guns fired their loads of shot into the ragged ranks. At some places, the carnage was horrific; at others, only a few men went down with annoyed curses. But what the marksmen had left of the front rank, the swivel guns almost completely swept away. And with that rank, went the courage of those behind it.

  Because in the next moment, the Spanish saw the first trench of musketeers bring a fresh set of preloaded weapons to bear upon them, and gunners on the wall of the fort uncover two sakers that were already aiming downward.

  The Spanish formation started to break away, first in small bits, then in chunks, then en masse. Most headed left: north to the beach. They had seen no enemies there, the footing was sure, and for those who needed it, there was water to put out their still-smoldering clothes and boots.

  The Spanish who had been on the southern side of the assault broke inland, racing around the edge of the burning driftwood and making for the jungle. And a few very desperate men who had been at the central point of the charge ran straight back toward the ragged flames, vanishing into the thick black smoke. Of the three or four hundred Spanish who had emerged, charging, from that smoke, perhaps a quarter lay still or were attempting to crawl or hobble after their routed comrades.

  “It was a good choice, bringing some of the swivel guns taken from La Flota down here,” Ulrich remarked.

  “I wish we’d taken more,” Hugh muttered. “Because we had to take some from the fluyts hiding behind Point Fortin, to the south. If the Spanish prevail at sea and find that anchorage, it will have been a very bad choice indeed.”

  Ann was still staring at the bodies littering the field before them. “I know it’s stupid to feel this way, I know they would have shown us little or no mercy if our situations were reversed, but it just seems wrong. Wrong to slaughter all those men who never had a chance.”

  O’Rourke appeared from behind Hugh’s shoulder, had possibly been there all along. “No soldier likes the killing, Miss Ann. At least not any of the sane ones. But it’s just as you say. Once battle is joined, it’s them or us.”

  Hugh turned and began walking back to the blockhouse that was the stockade’s headquarters. O’Rourke looked after him, closed the shutter on the murder slit. “There’s no good that’s ever come of the dirty business of war, except ending it with your friends still alive and your flag still flying. Which might not be what’s happening off Point Galba. You can see for yourself, if you wish.” He gestured to the roof of the blockhouse.

  Instead of going up there, Ann wanted to find a very deep hole, close it after her, and shake for a very long time. But she said, “Yes, I’ll come up with you.”

  * * *

  Tearlach Mulryan watched, unable to think or even blink, as Hjalmar van Holst’s forty-eight-gun Vereenigte Provintien continued heading directly for the lane of open water separating the even larger Spanish flagship from its smaller starboard escort. Does he know what he’s doing? That it’s tantamount to suicide? the young Irishman wondered.

  But just as Vereenigte Provintien was starting to come between the two galleons, she veered sharply southward. It was an easy maneuver, since the wind was from the north, and gave her stronger way and better speed. But now she was on a collision course with the Spanish flagship.

  Which, Mulryan realized with a gasp, had been van Holst’s intent from the moment he had started running head-to-head with that massive galleon. Both she and her escort had been expecting a duel of broadside to broadside at pistol shot, had probably expected to pinch in toward the overconfident Dutch warship, trap her in a vise and hammer her from less than thirty yards. But now, with the Vereenigte Provintien heading obliquely toward the flagship, the tactical situation had radically altered. The two largest ships on each side would now come into boarding range, and the Spaniard’s escort would be hard put to change course in time to arrive within the first ten minutes of the fight across those decks. Furthermore, she could only do so by turning hard to port, thereby putting her bow athwart the big Dutchman’s port batteries. That would allow van Holst to send a raking broadside down the length of her weather deck.

  The escort’s only other alternative was to maneuver as best the wind allowed to swing about to approach the other side of Hjalmar’s ship, more improbably, turn directly into the wind to get sternway and slowly back herself into a position alongside the Vereenigte Provintien. If the breeze, her sail master, the gunfire, and her captain’s skill all permitted it, that is.

  Van Holst had made an inspired and bold choice, Mulryan conceded, but still suicidal. The big Dane would never be able to break away from the big galleon once he’d grappled to it. And the other Spanish ships would surely converge upon Vereenigte Provintien, both to sink her and save their own flagship.

  Which was already occurring. The galleons that had nearly boxed in Sampson and Amsterdam were signaling continuously, and showed signs of breaking off. They were probably trying to work out which one was going to double back to help their flagship. Given that brief respite, the two Dutch warships maneuvered in the fresher wind, regained running room, headed toward the enemy vessels which had worked in between them and Peg Leg. Clearly, they were now intent on tearing apart one side of the box in which they, and the van of the fleet, had almost been caught.

  The flagship’s smaller escort galleon was similarly undecided in her course for a few moments. First she angled closer, her gun crews huddling over their pieces. But she swung away when it became obvious that, by the time she delivered a broadside to the Dutchman, it was likely that some of her fire would hit their admiral’s hull. As the escort came closer to the wind, she strove westward, evidently resolving to come all the way about and lay to on
the other side of the Dutchman: an easier and more reliable maneuver, but longer in the execution.

  Van Holst’s ship had now reached the flagship and, breaking to port at the last second, came close alongside, the yardarms cracking into each other as she did. The ships exchanged thunderous broadsides at point-blank range, smoke and debris gushing outward in all directions. By the time Mulryan could see the decks again, the Dutch boarders had taken the more numerous Spanish by surprise, leaping aboard and throwing sputtering grenades in a wide circle.

  But no: they were not grenades. They were what Eddie Cantrell had called “Molotov cocktails.” Loaded with the heavy petroleum products of the oil well, their burning fluids kept smoldering and flickering even where they shattered in pools of water or upon wet objects. Another suicidal move by van Holst, since fire on the Spanish flagship could now easily spread to the Vereenigte Provintien. But it sowed confusion among the Spanish, who seemed uncertain which of their number should fight the Dutch and which should fight the fires. In that time, van Holst had leaped upon the Spaniard’s deck.

  As he did, his starboard battery discharged once again, before the heavier and more cumbersome guns of his adversary could. When the Spanish gun decks made reply, it was noticeably diminished.

  But as the escort finally started to come about, and two other galleons maneuvered toward the duel between the great ships, Peg Leg’s Achilles and the Thetis were gaining speed, closing with the wind behind them and gun decks fresh and ready. Perhaps van Holst’s maneuver might yet allow the Dutch to fight the Spanish to a standstill, or even achieve victory.

  But as the black-morioned masses of enemy soldiers kept pouring up to join the fight on the flagship’s deck, they were winnowing out the ranks of the buff-coated Dutchmen surrounding Hjalmar, whose blond hair streamed to show where he had lost his helmet. And it was a certainty that before help could arrive, the escort would come along the Vereenigte Provintien’s port side and board her, pitting the crews of two Spanish galleons against that of one already-tired Dutchman.

  Mulryan watched, the telegraph box forgotten at his side. Had Hjalmar van Holst been brave or reckless? Cunning or foolish? Given his eagle’s-eye view, few had a better perspective from which to judge such matters than Tearlach Mulryan, and yet the only thing he knew with certainty was this: Can one call a stratagem successful if it is also, intrinsically, suicide?

  Because, from the flickering of Spanish swords now hemming Hjalmar closely, that certainly seemed to be the price the Dane-born Dutchman was about to pay.

  Part Four

  November–December 1636

  The port of serrated teeth

  —Herman Melville,

  “The Maldive Shark”

  Chapter 53

  Oranjestad, St. Eustatia

  No one sitting around the large table in Amelia’s great cabin was even thinking of food as the last of Tromp’s orderlies exited, rolls and fruit left on the side and already forgotten.

  “Eddie,” said Tromp, “thank you for traveling here overnight from Antigua.”

  “There’s too much news, and planning, that can’t wait, Admiral. The rest of the ships at St. John’s Naval Base will be arriving later today.”

  Dirck Simonszoon raised an eyebrow. “Even before we’ve decided on a course of action?”

  Eddie shrugged, which sent new rivulets of seawater down his back. He’d come straight off Intrepid to the meeting and his neck and hair were still damp from the spray of crossing Oranjestad Bay’s predawn chop in a skiff. “Whatever plans we make, it’s a sure bet all those hulls are going to be wanted.”

  Joost Banckert nodded. “It is a shame a few of them were not down in Trinidad.”

  Tromp sighed. “Which is the first order of business. We have a full report now. The Cartegena fleet did not just disengage, but is confirmed to be withdrawing. Our own forces are too reduced and battered to give chase. Particularly since that would leave Trinidad undefended until the reinforcements arrive in approximately two days.”

  Banckert frowned. “What did we lose?”

  Tromp sighed. “Too much, Joost. Kater, Noordsterre, Overijssel, and sadly, Vereenigte Provintien: all lost. Half of the remaining ships were badly damaged, so much so that few would have survived a second engagement. As you know from the first message, Hjalmar van Holst turned the tide but paid with his life. And now we have news that old Gijszoon died from his wounds. Good ships, good captains, and good friends all of them, the like of which we shall not see again.”

  “Crew casualties?”

  “As usual, the losses were highest among the ships that sank. Excepting the Vereenigte Provintien, fifty-seven were killed, seventy-six were wounded.”

  “And on van Holst’s ship?”

  Eddie had never seen Tromp take so deep a breath. “Of her three hundred and thirty-one sailors and soldiers, two hundred and twenty-four were killed, remain missing, or were mortally injured. Thirty-eight wounded were able to swim to shore. Only sixty-nine made it off the ship unscathed, most by going through gunports or taking desperate dives over the bow and the stern. She never had the chance to put any boats in the water.”

  “Good God,” said Eddie.

  Tromp nodded. “When a ship is bracketed by adversaries, this is often the result. It did not help that the fires started during the boarding of the Spanish flagship spread back to Vereenigte Provintien. Both she and the galleon burned down to the water. But the Spanish won the fight well beforehand and so, were able to abandon their own vessel before it rolled.”

  Simonszoon’s voice was carefully unemotional. “Are the guns, theirs and ours, in shallow water? Reclaimable?” The others at the table could only stare at the ruthless pragmatism of the question. Hannibal Sehested’s eyes widened slightly.

  Tromp nodded tightly. “I believe so.”

  Banckert’s frown had deepened. “Trinidad is already becoming an expensive proposition.”

  Simonszoon’s lips were taught, thinner than usual. “Just as we anticipated. How many of the Spanish did we sink or scuttle?”

  Tromp exhaled. “Four galleons were sunk or scuttled, as was one of the two naos that had already landed troops. Three other galleons were abandoned as hulks.”

  Eddie did the mental math, based on the thumbnail data he’d heard about the engagement. “If Jol’s ships were in such bad shape, I’m surprised that the Spanish considered themselves beaten.”

  Tromp shrugged. “They probably didn’t, any more than we felt ‘beaten’ when we turned back at Vieques last year. But with half their troops dead, wounded, or routed, and their fleet split into two parts that could not support each other, it would have been dangerous for them to press on. The odds at sea were no longer strongly in their favor, the remaining transports were being threatened by Tropic Surveyor and Leeuwinne, and the fort and its considerable battery had not suffered any appreciable losses. In short, the Spaniards’ primary objective, to land and expel us, had gone from being reasonable to very unlikely. And with their commander forced to transfer his flag, and the certainty that further ship losses would not be offset by replacements from La Flota, they made the same decision I would: to preserve what force they had left. Particularly after the near-massacre of their landing force.”

  Sehested’s eyes remained wide. “That sounded particularly gruesome.”

  Tromp nodded. “It was. But as is often the case, flame weapons drive off far more men than they kill. Even including the volleys from our troops entrenched on that flank, only one hundred fifty of their infantry were casualties. And of those, less than half were killed outright or mortally wounded.”

  Eddie shook his head. “So there are four hundred fifty Spanish regulars loose on Trinidad? Well that’s sure going to put a crimp in our oil prospecting and extraction operations.”

  “Yes,” agreed Tromp, “although this new report indicates that the Nepoia have already accounted for more than one hundred of the survivors, as well as the great majority of the wounded. And
I suspect those who remain are presently concerned with hiding, not attacking. However, until Hyarima can assure us otherwise, we must now presume our operations on Trinidad may be at risk from raiding and sabotage.”

  “And how many men did we lose on land?”

  “Very few. Eighteen Dutch soldiers and artillerists were killed. A similar number were wounded.”

  Sehested, who was more familiar with land combat, frowned. “Why is the proportion of dead so high, Admiral?”

  “A galleon hit one of the guns in the battery. Its entire crew was slain, as well as several men tending adjacent guns. Additionally, nine of the Irish mercenaries were killed and fourteen wounded, half during their ambush against the landing, the other half when those in the fort sortied to ensure that the Spanish retreat became a rout.”

  “Still,” Eddie mused quietly, “it doesn’t sound like the Spanish got a bloody-enough nose to stay away for very long.”

  Tromp nodded. “I am afraid you are right. Had La Flota arrived earlier this year, I doubt the Cartagena fleet would have withdrawn farther than Puerto Cabello.”

  “Or maybe Curaçao?” Eddie almost whispered the last word. The island had already become synonymous with rapine, lawlessness, atrocity, savagery. And not merely because of what the Brethren of the Coast had done there, but because they had stayed. It was now their own open port where anything, truly anything, could be had for the right price.

  Tromp looked grim. “No. Not even the Spanish will use Curaçao. They are not welcome there, even though many of its ‘inhabitants’ remain on their payroll.”

  Simonszoon doggedly stuck to practical matters. “Was Jol able to save any of those three Spanish hulks?”