by Eric Flint
Sex with Anne Cathrine had always been cataclysmic, spontaneous, sometimes almost kinky. Well, kinky in his book. Before Cat, Eddie had been pretty much Mr. Plain Vanilla when it came to sex. Not like he’d had many opportunities to try other flavors, let alone visit the ice cream truck of carnal pleasure.
But that night’s sex with Cathrine didn’t just move a little further away from the playfulness that had been waning ever since he’d returned from Dominica. Now, intimacy had become serious business.
And seriously athletic. Olympic, even. But not so much like gymnastics or even wrestling. More like the marathon. And Anne Cathrine, who’d always managed to effortlessly switch back and forth between tigress and coy flirt, wasn’t merely serious about the lovemaking. She’d become, well . . . determined. With a capital D.
And then there was the way she had clung to him afterwards, just before the sun started coming up. It was almost desperate. Damn: if they’d had the day together, he’d have sat her down and asked her what was going on, how he could help. And it might indeed take the whole day, because when they did have conversations about their sex life, their roles kind of flipped. Though she was the far less inhibited partner in bed, she was far more inhibited when it came to talking about anything that happened there.
Eddie wasn’t eager to dissect their love life, and up until now, there certainly hadn’t been any reason to. He’d always been an advocate of the old saying, “If it ain’t broke don’t fix it.” In the case of sex with Anne Cathrine, his personal motto was even more emphatic: “If it’s perfect, don’t even look at it!” But something had changed her from a bedtime playmate to a determined contender in the sex-athalon. So when Eddie got back, he was going to hold her hands and ask her to tell him what was going on, or at least listen while he told her that he’d felt the change and that he was there for her, whatever it might portend.
Intrepid’s engines surged, and the deck seemed to shift under him; they were underway. Eddie glanced around the cabin. Although everything was just as he’d left it, was just as it had been when he’d returned a few minutes before, it was different. Suddenly, it no longer felt like a sanctuary, or a place of pride, or even of work; suddenly, it felt like a prison. Because although it had often carried him away from where he wanted to be, this was the first time it was carrying him away from where he needed to be.
Chapter 54
Governor’s Bay, St. Barthélemy
Six hours later, Intrepid rode at anchor in Governor’s Bay, St. Barthélemy, and Eddie was back on deck, greeting Maarten Tromp, who’d just been piped aboard with abbreviated ruffles and flourishes. “So, I take it you’ve brought your flag, Admiral?” the young up-timer asked, offering a smile along with his hand.
Tromp sighed, accepting both. “I succumb to the inevitable, Commodore. Joost Banckert has wanted Amelia for almost half a decade now, and he has her well in hand.” He sighed. “As for me?” He shook his head. “After directing the fleet from Resolve at Dominica, I cannot in good conscience fly my flag from a ship other than one of your cruisers. The command advantages are too many and too profound. Let us walk.”
Eddie fell in beside Maarten, pretty sure he knew the purpose of their private stroll to the taffrail.
“You and your lady wife were wise to decide that you should not share the information about the seamstress until you saw me today.”
“Did you tell Governor van Walbeeck?”
Tromp shrugged. “Just the basics. He is of the same mind, by the way. He agrees that we lacked the time to decide upon a course of action, and that this would not be the right moment for it. Not until the battle is settled, we are back home, and can take well-measured steps. Whatever those prove to be. As it is,” he sighed, “we have more than enough demands upon our attention.”
Eddie leaned on the taffrail. “Frankly, I’d feel better if there was a bit more demanding our attention.” He waved in the direction of St. Maarten, through the slopes that hemmed in Governor’s Bay. “I was hoping to have some observation reports to read through, get a head start on figuring out what the Spanish are doing over there. But it’s just like the observers on The Quill predicted. Even at fifteen nautical miles, today’s haze is too thick to see anything. Even from the balloon, the island’s outline was barely visible.”
Tromp nodded. “Then it is unlikely they have seen us, either.” He looked up at the peaks and ridges that rose up around them like an amphitheater for giants. “And they will not see us here tonight. By which time the transports will have reached this anchorage as well and we may array the ships to weigh anchor while it is still dark.”
Eddie nodded. It all made sense. It would also be one of the strategies their enemies were likely to anticipate, even if they hadn’t already seen them sail up along St. Eustatia’s west coast and then beat to the northeast. Now, twenty-four miles later, they were concealed in Governor’s Bay, from which they had a much shorter sail into tomorrow’s fight for St. Maarten. Completely logical. And therefore, completely predictable.
They’d follow that script starting at 0300, weighing anchor so that they could traverse the last fifteen miles while it was still early in the day: enough time to finish whatever battle would ensue. The lead elements of the fleet—Intrepid, Relentless, Crown of Waves, and two Dutch jachts—were to precede the rest by two nautical miles, balloon up and watching for ambushes or other unexpected circumstances. All those hulls had sufficient speed and maneuverability that they could almost certainly avoid any nasty surprises, and yet detect the same in enough time to give the main body sufficient warning to steer clear.
The body of the fleet was led by Resolve and consisted of five more jachts, ten larger Dutch ships carrying anywhere from thirty-six to fifty-five guns, and three steam tugs to help the slowest of those keep up and thereby increase the speed of the whole formation. The argument to take along some of the newly repaired and refurbished prizes from Dominikirk, particularly the purpose-built war galleons, were not part of the fleet for much the same reason: the power of their guns and thickness of their sides could not offset the loss in speed and maneuverability that their inclusion would entail. In consequence, they remained at St. Eustatia, a daunting addition to the already significant flotilla that had been detailed to Oranjestad’s defense.
Beyond that, there was the normal array of preplanned contingencies for engaging different numbers of different adversaries in different locations and different formations. All standard procedure. But that’s exactly what bothered Eddie about the various plans; they, too, were entirely derived from conventional doctrine. So, once again, they were completely predictable.
Tromp had evidently seen those misgivings on Eddie’s face. “What is troubling you, Eddie?”
“Doesn’t all this feel, well, a little too tidy?”
Tromp’s grin was small and rueful. “That would be a pleasant change, almost. But yes, I understand; I have a similar premonition. If the Spanish were proceeding in accord with their stated doctrine, they would have closed en masse and attempted to catch us near our own port. Or intercepted us when we came out, or shortly after if they hoped to cripple us by destroying our supply ships. Just as they tried at Vieques.”
Eddie nodded. “But at Vieques, I got the same vibe as now. Because, like here, we couldn’t see where the threat was going to come from. We had no way of knowing that they meant to bring in dozens of pirates-turned-privateers from over the horizon. And this . . . well, this kind of has the same feeling. What the Bermudans saw, and maybe what we’ll first detect tomorrow, is likely to be a ruse. Just like the fleeing galleons that drew us after them at Vieques.”
Tromp’s grin widened slightly but remained rueful. “Tomorrow, I will not be surprised if, in fact, the Spanish surprise us. It is one of the few effective weapons they have left. So I am resolved to the presumption that they will have yet again labored to craft a plan that we cannot foresee. And we, in turn, have taken every possible precaution and have readied ourselves to seiz
e every imaginable advantage. About which: I presume your plans for Tortuga are well in hand?”
Eddie nodded. “Everything is on track for that. Our piece is not only on the gameboard but has made the first few moves.”
“Well, then, let us accept that we have attended to all that is in our power to control.” Tromp shrugged. “Which, in war, is never very much. Now we are subject to the dictates of Fates. Or perhaps, eh, the Laws of Murphy?”
Eddie smiled. “Murphy’s Law. And there’s actually just one, Maarten.”
“Yes, yes, I misspoke. ‘Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong, and at the worst possible time.’ That is the only law, yes?”
Eddie nodded. “It is.” But darned if that one law isn’t enough, every single time.
Pelican Point, St. Maarten
Fadrique Álvarez de Toledo completed his descent to the bottom of Billy Folly Hill, where the slope disappeared down into the water. Known as Pelican Point, his longboat was bobbing in the nearby swells, waiting to take him the long way around St. Maarten to rendezvous with his flagship’s anchorage in north-facing Marcel Cove. As the coxswain started the process of putting up the stepsail, a patache came sweeping around the eastern side of the small headland, steering near to the rocks. It put a dinghy over the side—a bobbing bridge between the rocks and its gunwale—and the ship’s master called up to Fadrique: was he in fact Admiral Álvarez de Toledo? Fadrique signaled an affirmative and waited as a messenger hopped from the ship to the boat to the rocks and then panted his way up the slope.
“Sir,” the fellow wheezed, “the signal you have been waiting for: it was seen three hours ago. A fishing boat—a smack, as the English call them—sailing up out of the south and flying a red jib.”
So, they are on their way. Sometime this morning, from the sound of it. “Where was the boat encountered? And did it attempt to rendezvous?”
“About eight miles northeast of Saba, and no, sir; as soon as we confirmed seeing their signal, they turned about and sailed back south.”
Álvarez nodded. “They fear suspicion if they are absent too long, particularly if they are seen returning from this direction. You saw no sign of the allied fleet?”
“None, Admiral.”
Fadrique grimaced. The same haze that kept his men’s work unobserved, and hence potentially decisive, also concealed the details of his enemy’s movements. Yes, the signal told him that their fleet had left Oranjestad. It also suggested, based on how long it had taken their agent to wait for safe departure and then journey north of Saba, that the enemy had sailed relatively early this morning.
But if they had been heading here, they would have been seen several hours ago by his observers on what the up-time maps labeled Flagstaff Hill. Although visibility was limited to twelve miles, the allied fleet would have reached that limit long ago, even had they been traveling at a leisurely pace.
Which indicated that they had not traveled to St. Maarten at all. It was unlikely that they had traveled either west or south. If that had been the case, the agent in the fishing smack would have deemed it safe to leave earlier, and so reach the rendezvous earlier as well.
So, by process of elimination, all facts pointed to the enemy setting out on an initially northbound course that had not yet brought them to St. Maarten, although it was less than a day’s sail from St. Eustatia. That suggested one of three possible destinations: Antigua, Barbuda, or St. Barthélemy.
The rotating and often unreliable informers on both St. Christopher and St. Eustatia had occasionally included vague references to “possible” activity on Antigua, but so far, that had been their way of padding out otherwise scanty reports. Barbuda had never been mentioned and was notable only for being proximal to nothing of importance. But St. Barthélemy? Yes: they were there.
Álvarez was giving orders to the messenger even as he made his way hastily down to the patache still bobbing in the rollers running past the bottom of Billy Folly Hill. “Get runners to spread the word: the heretics will be here tomorrow. Early in the morning, I expect. Harbor pilots need to guide the larger galleons into the lagoon immediately. Tell Gallardo that his men and boats have to be ready by midnight. Same for the positions on this hill. And send runners to the outposts on Flagstaff Hill and Paradise Peak; they need to make sure the firewood remains dry overnight.”
As he jumped into the boat and crossed it to the patache with the surefootedness of a life lived at sea, the messenger stood on the shore. “Sir . . . my boat?” He looked at the rowers in the admiral’s own longboat, who could only shrug.
Álvarez noticed none of it: he was already climbing over the gunwale of the patache, ordering its master to get him to Marcel Cove before nightfall.
Chapter 55
Off the southern coast, St. Maarten
“Are they trying to burn down the whole island?” Svantner asked the air around him. He sounded both perplexed and outraged.
“Not according to the signals from the observer in the balloon,” Eddie said with a shake of his head. “Although there sure is a lot of smoke.”
“Yes,” mused Tromp, eye still affixed to his spyglass, “so much so that I think we are seeing the opening gambit of the Spanish attempt to surprise us.”
Well, thought Eddie, they sure got a rise out of Svantner, and I’m none too comfortable about this myself. “Comms?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Did the observer confirm his first sighting of the enemy’s ships?”
“Yes sir, although the smoke is starting to obscure them.”
“Report positions for plotting.” Eddie nodded to Svantner, who turned his attention to the tactical plot with some reluctance.
The runner who’d brought up the observer’s report from the intraship comms cubby began reading out the report that had come down the wire from the balloon. No reason to use the speaking tubes until the pace picked up. “As per two minutes ago, observer confirmed three galleon-sized vessels maneuvering near Simpson’s Lagoon and the base of Billy Folly Hill. There may be one or two smaller ships with them; smoke and haze prevents full confidence of sighting.
“Off the leeward shore of the island, just beyond Marigot Bay on the far side of Simpson’s Lagoon, there are at least twelve and as many as twenty galleon-sized vessels. Fires have been set on the lagoon’s western barrier bank. The smoke has made positive counts difficult and will soon complicate keeping those ships under observation at all.”
“So, a smoke screen,” Eddie summarized.
“It could be a signal, too,” Tromp added, before turning to the junior signalman, whose apprenticeship included working as comms’ dedicated runner. “Any sign of activity along the southern shore itself?”
“None reported. But the observer adds that fires have been set there, as well. He no longer has visibility of the near edge of the lagoon, nor anything beyond the shore lining its southern barrier bank.”
“And the mountain range that runs from north to south?”
“Still two very large fires burning near the top of the mountains tentatively identified as Flagstaff Hill and Paradise Peak.”
“Those fires: has the observer been able to determine if they are widespread or concentrated?”
“Yes, sir. A single source in each case. Observer reports a steady output of smoke, no evidence that it is spreading.”
“And we can’t see beyond that smoke?”
“No, sir.”
Tromp raised an eyebrow. “Those hills are both quite high, Eddie. What would you expect to see over them, even if you sent the balloon up to seven hundred feet?”
Eddie shook his head. “I don’t know. But I get the feeling those fires wouldn’t be there if the Spanish didn’t want to hide something. But since they are probably uncertain about just how high our balloon can actually go, they’re not taking any chances.”
Tromp accepted that explanation with an agreeable pout and a nod. “That is true. And they have gone to a great deal of trouble to cut all that wood, so
high up, and have it ready to burn when they spot us. So if this is simply a . . . a stalking stallion—?”
“Stalking horse.”
“Yes: that. If this is just a stalking horse, they spent a great deal of time and energy creating it.”
Eddie nodded. “Yeah, I don’t think this is a diversion.” He clenched the hand holding the top of his pistol’s holster, making sure the flap was secured. “I also don’t like those ship numbers. And the way they’re separated? It would take an hour for either formation to sail to the support of the other. It just doesn’t make—”
The junior signalman came racing to the top of the stairs again. “New report, Commodore!”
“Good. Read it, Jetse.”
“Activity detected on the shore-facing slopes and peak of Billy Folly Hill.”
Tromp frowned. “That is at Pelican Point, just east of Simpson’s Lagoon. Is there any sign that they have built a fort on its peak?”
“Unclear, sir.”
“What about closer to the Great Bay, and near Fort Hill?”
“No activity there, sir. No ships, either.”
Tromp frowned. “Now that is strange. They are ignoring what I have been told is the primary anchorage and the site of the original colony.”
Eddie chewed at his lip. “I wish the Bermudans had gotten a better look at what was going on before they left.”
“You can hardly blame them; they were being pursued.”
“I know, but we’re missing something. I just wish we knew what it was.”
Tromp folded his hands, smiled calmly. “Well, Eddie, I think the Spanish mean for us to try and find out.”
Eddie glanced sideways at him. “That sounds a lot like a ‘go’ order, Admiral.”
“So it is. Case Theta Two, as we presumed. Mr. Svantner, have you heard if the fleet is still making three knots?”
“Confirmed within the last five minutes, Admiral.”
