1637: No Peace Beyond the Line

by Eric Flint

“They did at Vieques, sir.” Both men turned to stare at Rodríguez de Ledesma. His comment was not exactly impudent, but it had not been invited.

  Fadrique faced him directly. “At Vieques, the allies did not divide their forces; the sailed ships made best speed to escape while the steamships remained behind as a rearguard. But I was not aware you were there, Lieutenant.”

  “It was my first battle, sir.”

  “What ship?”

  “The San Pedro, sir.”

  Álvarez nodded. “That was Captain de Covilla’s ship.”

  “It was, sir. He is a brave man.”

  “He is indeed.” Fadrique pointed over the bowsprit to the furthest fragata, the one following just behind the last of the four galleons. “He is now captain of the Espada Santa. He will be the first to close with the enemy.”

  “As I said, he is a brave man, sir.”

  Álvarez nodded. And he is stubborn, and a fool, leading from the front yet again! We need you, Eugenio. You have already proven your bravery and your ability and I will not allow you to risk your neck after this. Because upon that neck sits a very clever head that we cannot afford to lose.

  But Rodríguez was frowning. “Sir, I am uncertain what you mean. How would it be that Espada Santa will be the first to engage? Is she to come around the galleons and open the way for them?”

  “No, Lieutenant.” Well, there was no reason not to give Irragara’s executive officer a sense of the profoundly counter-doctrinal battle he would soon see unfold. “We do not expect the galleons to survive long enough to bring the enemy ships under their guns.”

  “Sir?”

  “You were at Vieques, so you should understand. If we round Pointe Blanche and a steamship is anywhere in range, it will likely open fire at no less than six hundred yards. In good weather such as this, each gun will fire twice every minute. That is four shells a minute. Before long, they will be hitting at least fifty percent of the time.”

  “So, so . . . ” stammered Rodríguez, “those fine ships, those brave crews, they are to be . . . to be Judas goats?”

  “No,” interjected Irragara, “they are the strongest smoke ships we could fashion. With this wind behind them, they will make near four knots and the smoke will be rushing into the face of the enemy. And us—in these new swifter, smaller, and more maneuverable ships—shall close safely as far as we may, protected by their sacrifice. And Lieutenant?”

  “Sir?” the younger man rasped.

  “Mind your tone.”

  “Yes, but sir . . . galleons are Spain’s mighty right arm!”

  Álvarez assessed the distance to Pointe Blanche. They had time, and it was best that this young man understand why he was about to watch the greatest symbol of Spanish military might gored like a picador’s horse. “Yes, Rodríguez,” he agreed, “galleons have always been Spain’s mighty right arm. But that arm no longer swings swiftly enough. Nor far enough. And I am not speaking of the steamships, now; we cannot get close enough to trade blows with those horrors. I am speaking of the Dutch ships, the new frigates that they have been building.”

  Rodríguez looked at the deck he was standing upon, then the fragatas and new-model galleoncetes that made up their squadron. “Yes, the Dutch ships fire more quickly, like these. But their guns are lighter and so do less damage. Again, like these.”

  Fadrique leaned away from the pale young man who, despite having been in combat only once before, was now—God help us!—an executive officer. “Lieutenant, do you know how long it takes to reload one of the forty-two-pounders that made our galleons the scourge of all seven seas? No? Well, as it so happens, I’ve spent my whole career waiting on those great beasts to be readied for a second broadside. So here is the only fact a young officer must remember about those guns if he wishes to survive: the Dutch load their pieces twice as quickly. So they always have more chances to hit you, even if you have the same number of guns. And in time, you will also realize that each Dutch ball that hits does not just damage your ship; it chips away at the morale of your crew.”

  Álvarez folded his hands, felt ridiculously like a schoolmaster rather than an admiral on the verge of a decisive battle. “So yes, a single hit from our greatest guns can cripple smaller Dutch ships. And yes, we’ve still been able to contend with the Dutch, although their ships are often faster, more maneuverable, and more quick to fire. But change is the only constant, Lieutenant. Our galleons are rapidly becoming great, ponderous Goliaths with fists too slow to hit what they swing at. Whereas our enemy’s new frigates are like Davids: swifter still, even more maneuverable, shooting often, and readily dodging our greatest broadside blows.”

  De Orbea shouted from the midship gunwale. “Admiral! Signal from Guana Cay, sir. One enemy ship has been sighted, tacking east. It is small and within a quarter of a mile of attaining a clear line of sight to us.”

  The admiral turned to Irragara, seeking confirmation on what his senses were already telling him.

  The captain implicitly understood the admiral’s glance. His smile was narrow and pitiless. “The wind is perfect for these sails, sir. A bit wide over the quarter. We’ll be around the point before the heathens can even signal we’re coming.”

  “Excellent. I require signals, Irragara.”

  He gestured to Rodríguez. “They are at your disposal, Admiral.”

  Álvarez indicated that they should walk with him as he descended the foc’sle and made briskly astern, speaking loudly so that the ship’s masters and deckhands alike could hear him.

  “We shall soon come around the headland to starboard, Pointe Blanche. The galleons will lead us out, the wind full in their sails and fires on their deck to raise smoke that shall conceal us as we follow behind them. When we are close enough, we shall come around and between them to set upon our foes.”

  “We’ll smash those demon ships at last!” some sail handler shouted from the rigging.

  “No, we shall not,” Álvarez yelled over him. “Our job is to close with the other enemy ships, so fast and so near that those demon spawn cannot fire for fear of hitting them.” Once amidships, he stopped and turned slowly to address all those in the range of his voice. “As we come at them from the east, our other ships shall round Gunner’s Point to the west and stand as firm and unyielding as an anvil.

  “And we . . . we shall be the hammer! And will do unto our enemies as they did unto our brothers-in-arms off Dominica! We shall see if the demon ships still venture boldly from their ports, as they have fewer and fewer minions to protect them from our wiles and ambushes.” He paused and smiled around. “We may even have a holy lance with which to slay one of those great, smoke-maned lions today. But even if not, we can slaughter much of the pride. This time, and the next time, and the time after that.”

  He paused, felt their unblinking eyes upon him. “And then, when the demon ships are all that are left, then we shall see who truly rules these waves!” He resumed his journey to the stern, cheers growing and following behind him.

  As did de Orbea, who asked, “Your Excellency, how do you mean to destroy their steamships? What is this holy lance?”

  Fadrique glanced sideways. De Orbea, my boy, you may not be much of an officer, but you are not blinded by stirring rhetoric. And that is a valuable trait unto itself. “Lieutenant, there is only one kind of weapon which can kill such infernal adversaries: the ones they themselves create.”

  “So . . . so you have one of their guns? Or ships? Or—?”

  Fadrique held up a hand. De Orbea might not be easily swayed by rhetoric but, alas, he was equally impervious to metaphors. “It is not a physical device at all, de Orbea. We shall undo our enemies through their prideful overconfidence in up-time wonders.”

  “You mean, confidence in their steamships?”

  Fadrique smiled. “Those, too,” he muttered and made for the poop deck.

  Which left de Orbea to follow mute and wondering in his wake as the crew’s cheers evolved into bellicose cries of eagerness for battle. Th
at promising noise carried Admiral Fadrique Álvarez de Toledo all the way to the poop. It was still loud as he gestured Rodríguez toward the waiting signalmen. It persisted even as he nodded at the wide, fierce grins of the men around him and he thought:

  Please God, I beg you: let everything I told them be true.

  Chapter 57

  Off the southern coast, St. Maarten

  As Resolve came within a mile of the galleons waiting near Pelican Point, they finally began to move with dispatch . . . but toward Simpson’s Lagoon’s barrier bank.

  Dirck Simonszoon could barely believe his eyes. Were they planning to run themselves aground? He looked through his spyglass. The smoke at ground level was thick, but he could still descry that they were proceeding directly toward the approximate edge of the land as quickly as a reaching breeze allowed. Simonszoon called for his foretopman to confirm if he was seeing the same thing, and got a cry of “Aye, sir!” almost instantly.

  Simonszoon leaned toward his XO, smiled thinly. “Bjelke, I never thought I’d say this, but I cannot trust my own senses. I need your confirmation.”

  Rik Bjelke nodded vigorously. “I see what you do, sir, and I cannot imagine what the Spanish are doing. I do wish we could see the barrier bank better. Unfortunately, since it is almost level with the water and the smoke drifting over from Billy Folly Hill blocks observation from the crow’s nest, there is no way to know if they are running as close to land as it seems. Perhaps they mean to bait us close to shore guns?”

  Dirck frowned. “A reasonable guess, but how do they expect to see to shoot through their own smoke?”

  Rik shook his head. “Sir, I have no answer. Indeed, I cannot think of any that make sense.”

  “Very well. We shall continue to remain under sail only. I want firing solutions from Mount One and Two for the closest ship. If they don’t run like frightened hens beforehand, we shall open fire at six hundred yards.”

  As the leading galleon was slowly swallowed up by the smoke near the shore, Rik squinted at the distance. “I make their speed less than a knot, sir. We will reach range in six minutes.”

  “Which, if they hold their current course, is about the same time the last of them will run aground.” Simonszoon shook his head. “Lieutenant, they say if you sail long enough, you will see everything. But in all my years at sea, I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  * * *

  One after the other, the galleons vanished into the smoke, became dim outlines. Only the last one in line, their target, remained fully visible. But it too was approaching the smoke. “Rik, change in orders. Instruct Mount One to fire when we reach six hundred fifty yards.”

  Bjelke nodded, sent the instruction down the speaking tube, and a few moments later, the sound and rush of the forward eight-inch naval rifle buffeted them.

  The azimuth setting had been correct, but the elevation was high; the shell punched a hole in the top mainsail.

  “Adjust.”

  “Shall I steer another point to left to give Mount Two a firing angle?”

  “Let’s wait a moment, Rik. If the others come back out of the smoke, I want to be able to make them wish they hadn’t.” But how could any of them hope to come hard about and toward us, now? They’d lose way before crossing the wind and be in irons for sure.

  “Mount One reports ready and target reacquired.”

  “Fire.”

  The gun sent out a long smoky plume that pointed to the shell’s impact point, just abaft the galleon’s waist. Planks, shrouds, stays flew outward, stippling the water. Dirck brought up his spyglass to inspect the degree of damage more closely.

  . . . And watched as the shadowy outline of the galleon in front of the one they’d just hit sailed onto the land.

  Impossible, of course. But at just under half a mile away, Simonszoon could measure distances between objects down to a few yards, and damn it, that ghostly galleon had just sailed right over or through where the lagoon’s barrier bank began.

  Or where we thought it began . . .

  “I need steam!” Simonszoon cried. “Rik, get the handlers aloft! They need to catch more of this wind; I want five knots! Pilot, give me a point to port. Mount Two, acquire and fire. Mount One, give ’er another taste of our iron. Leadsman to the bow! Foretop, eyes ahead and keen on the coast! Christ’s Own carbuncles, let’s find out what the hell is going on here!”

  * * *

  “Admiral Tromp! Message from Captain Simonszoon!”

  Eddie glanced at the paper as Tromp took it from Cas. “So does he tell us what he’s been doing?”

  “He does,” the admiral answered slowly, “although I am no less puzzled now than I was before.” He handed it off with a frown as he bent over the tactical plot. “It seems we must make an adjustment to the map.”

  “What?” Eddie said, right before he read:

  FR: SIMONSZOON, CO RESOLVE

  TO: TROMP, FLT ADM, ABOARD INTREPID

  –MESSAGE BEGINS–

  HAVE DISABLED 2 GALLEONS STOP

  2 OTHERS FLED INTO LAGOON VIA INLET AT BASE OF BILLY FOLLY HILL STOP

  INLET APPX 60 YARDS WIDE STOP

  AT LEAST 6 MORE GALLEONS IN LAGOON STOP

  ALL BECALMED OR MOVING AT LESS THAN HALF A KNOT STOP

  INTEND TO ENGAGE SOONEST, PENDING YOUR APPROVAL STOP

  –MESSAGE ENDS–

  Eddie held the flimsy away from him. “This makes no sense. No sense.” He turned to Cas. “Get the operational atlas. You know where it is?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then run!” He turned back to the tactical map. “The Spanish couldn’t have dug an inlet almost sixty yards wide and at least sixty long, not since we got word of them. They can’t have. We’d have seen the dirt, the machinery.”

  Tromp nodded. “I agree. But here it is.”

  Eddie shook his head. “But it’s not on our charts. Not on any of them!” Cas returned with a large up-time briefcase, and produced a venerable ring binder from its depths.

  “Ah,” Tromp mused, “The Holy of Holies.”

  “You seem awful calm about this, Maarten.”

  “Would it help to get upset?”

  Maarten, I really do hate it when you get all . . . all adult on me. Eddie opened the ring binder to the section tabbed “St. Maarten.” He flipped through the plastic-sleeved charts, each the product of hours of meticulous copying. He found those that showed Simpson’s Lagoon and its approaches, then laid them out for Tromp. “The inlet is not there. Not even on these old maps, back to the mid-1800s. And this French one from 1775? Not there, either.”

  Tromp pointed to the center of the same stretch of barrier bank. “However, all of the newer maps do show an inlet here, about two hundred yards to the west. So perhaps there was some initial placement error made by one mapmaker that was picked up and repeated by those who came after?”

  Eddie froze for a moment. Omigod, how do I say this without sounding insulting? “Maarten, here’s the first problem with that theory: the older maps don’t show any inlet at all. The second problem is that the inlet you’re pointing at is man-made. Look: here are the four surveys conducted between 1943 and the Ring of Fire. And see? On the first one, there’s no inlet anywhere along the barrier bank.

  “But on the next three? There it is. And see how straight it is? That’s because they dug it when they decided to turn Simpson’s Lagoon into a marina. And it’s three hundred and thirty yards to the west of Billy Folly Hill, not right up against it.”

  Tromp leaned back from the maps. “Eddie, we must make a decision, and quickly. And it seems to me that there could be a simple-enough explanation for this. Either the inlet we see before us now was filled intentionally at some later point in your world, or it naturally silted in over time.” He shrugged. “So when they decided to make the lagoon a harbor, they chose the spot on your maps, instead.”

  “Yeah, but why move it from where we’re seeing it now? Why not simply dredge along the natural channel?”

>   For the first time since meeting him, Maarten’s voice took on a tone of carefully groomed patience. “If nature did fill in this inlet, that might have been what decided your up-time engineers against it. So they chose to dig a new channel with deeper approaches and less silting. Or what may have been more important”—Tromp pointed over the rail at Billy Folly Hill—“it may have been safer, away from all that loose rock.”

  Eddie frowned. “So you’re saying that the inlet we’re seeing is prone to rockslides?”

  Tromp shrugged. “Entirely possible. Which might also explain why it is not on any of the earlier maps, at least not any of those you had in Grantville.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, it may not be a permanent feature. Such things are common in shallow bays with shifting sand banks. Small islands can appear and then vanish in the course of a single decade, particularly in the wake of a great storm.” The admiral glanced at the coast. “Here, a particularly strong hurricane might reopen this inlet by washing away silt and loose rock. Only for it to begin filling up again.”

  Eddie nodded. Yeah, and then it would make sense to create a better inlet, once you had the technology to do it. But something about this just wasn’t right. “Look,” he said, “I still have a bad feeling about this. Why not have Resolve’s escort, Vliegende Hert, go in first? It’s got barely half the draft, so less risk grounding in the lagoon.”

  Tromp nodded somberly. “That is a reasonable suggestion. I will relay it, along with your reservations, to Resolve. But as Dirck is the commander on site, I shall leave the decision to accept or reject and escort to him.” Tromp wrote a hasty message, passed it to Cas, who was off in a flurry of skinny adolescent arms and legs.

  Eddie stared at the unchanged tactical plot for almost a minute before he asked. “Do you think Dirck will agree to taking the escort?”

  Tromp frowned, shook his head. “I very much doubt it.”

  “So do I,” Eddie sighed. There’s a reason he’s called Dirck the Smirk; he’s not shy about letting folks know that he’s pretty sure he’s right. About pretty much everything. “But damn if this doesn’t feel like a trap.”