by Eric Flint
“Not from him, Admiral. From acquaintances of his.”
Oh, must we do the dance of perfect deniability? Yes, I suppose we must, you toadying whoreson. “And what have these ‘acquaintances’ discerned about the likelihood of receiving radios from Madrid?”
“I am sorry to say that it is most improbable. It seems to be a political matter of considerable embarrassment to the crown and to Olivares both. I shall endeavor to learn more about that in my next set of correspondences. However, these same acquaintances seem to have yet other acquaintances who would be able to procure wireless sets. For our personal use. If we so desired.”
And so black-market goods can be made available if we are willing to swallow the markup for the procurement services of bureaucrats who specialize in graft and embezzlement. “Why, yes, Don de Curco y San Joan. We desire radios, don’t we, Governor de Viamonte?”
Juan’s smile was small, serene, and infinitely patient. “Why yes; yes, we do, Admiral.” He turned to de Curco y San Joan, and his gaze had an edge. “We desire radios very much.”
Chapter 68
Oranjestad, St. Eustatia
As Maarten Tromp stepped up from his longboat, he was met by Jan van Walbeeck and Mike McCarthy, Jr. and although it was not his wont, this was a special occasion and called for special allowances: in this case, drinking before noon.
Thirty minutes after extricating themselves from the celebratory crowds lining the bay, and well furnished with a selection of rum and gin in van Walbeeck’s apartment in the fort, Tromp asked the inevitable, dreaded question: “And how are things with our irate and obstreperous landowners?”
Jan held up a hand. “Stunningly, they have been neither irate nor obstreperous since you left. Also, there has been some kind of division among them.”
“How so?”
“Those who hold fewer slaves seem to have disassociated themselves from the cabal led by de Bruyne and Musen. The events at and after Whipping Square seem to have decided them to allow their slaves to be made bondsmen in order to realize the benefits of the tariff exclusion, to say nothing of the income from the bondsmen as they pay off their debt.”
Tromp sighed. “It makes me sick to hear of any man having to pay off a ‘debt’ to have his freedom. But it will pass soon enough. Particularly when all the escaped slaves who came back with us from Hispaniola enter the community as free men and women. With any luck, the tide against slavery will turn even faster.” He glanced at McCarthy. “You seem wholly unimpressed by the new possibilities of being rid of slavery, Michael.”
“That’s because I don’t trust de Bruyne and his lackeys as far as I can spit . . . if I thought they were worth spitting on, that is. No, that bunch is up to something.”
“And what do you think that is?”
“If I had any idea, I’d be digging and trying to root it out, but it’s just a feeling. They’ve never been calm before, never able to just hold their peace and bide their time.” He shook his head. “They’re scheming at something we can’t see. And I don’t like it.”
Tromp nodded. “And have you heard from your wife, Mike? Is she coming to join you soon?”
Mike grinned. “Damned if I can tell. Just got a reply a few weeks ago, finally.” He shrugged. “You know, the basic married stuff. ‘Glad you are well. All fine here.’ Told me just enough about the kids so that I know they’re alive. Then explained that the telegraph rates for private messages over the Atlantic are astronomical, so kiss-kiss-bye. Really? With all my pay going home? I know I wasn’t great about sending messages myself, but I’ve been really steady with it over the last few months. You might think she’d have a little more to say.” He leaned forward to grab the rum bottle.
Tromp peered carefully at van Walbeeck, who peered back. They exchanged dubious and worried looks over the up-timer’s head.
* * *
As Leonora walked up the stairs to Danish House with Rik Bjelke at her side, she found it surprising that there was no sign of life in it. Or around it. “It is quite strange,” she muttered. “The whole town seems to have come to a halt. And it shows no sign of starting up again. Just how long can all those people cheer and shout and make all that bothersome noise?”
Rik smiled as she took him by the hand and led him into what she had, at least in her own affairs, preserved as the sacrosanct domain of her own sex: the sitting room. His eyes widened a bit; whether it was because she had taken his hand or was inviting him into the house’s equivalent of the Forbidden City, he could not discern. She pulled out two chairs from the table, arranged them so they faced each other, and sat in one of them.
Rik sank into the other. He was both smiling and frowning, the two expressions blended into one by the profound perplexity behind both.
“Rik Bjelke,” she began, “I wish you to know, if it was not already quite plain, that I hold you in the very highest and fondest regard.”
“As I do you. In extremely fond regard, dear Leonora.”
She waved that aside; when he called her “dear Leonora” her otherwise reliably organized mind became quite disorganized. It was not a disagreeable sensation—not at all—but right now, she needed to retain all her focus. When she had quite composed herself, she announced, “After seeking Dr. Brandão’s counsel, and giving the matter much thought, I have decided to become a physician. This would include seeking tutelage of up-time practitioners.”
Rik nodded. Eagerly, Leonora thought. She pressed on.
“I realize that this may seem a peculiar ambition, given my sex. So I must make this clear.” She steeled herself. “I will not be what you, or any man, may think or want me to be. I must be myself, and I have discovered that to be so, I must do my best to achieve this goal. We, by which I mean women especially, need physicians whose art and practice of it is better suited to our true medical needs. It is crucial that medicine not only begins to embrace the more rigorous and provable scientific method brought by the up-timers, but also the presumption that listening carefully to the patient is as crucial a part of diagnosis and treatment as any other.”
Rik nodded again. His expression, while not exactly puzzled, was quite singular. It was akin to what might be expected if a scholar had sat him down and, with great gravity, solemnly informed him that water was wet. Still nodding, he said, “I profess no expertise, but your purpose sounds wise, prudent, and overdue.”
Leonora was happy and relieved that he was agreeing. Although he was doing it with an almost unsettling degree of ease. “It will mean travel,” she continued. “I aspire to study with the finest. And that means—” She found herself unable to utter the words, despite having practiced this speech at least a dozen times. Worse yet, she felt her gaze falter, her traitorous eyes sinking away from his despite her best efforts.
“It means,” he finished for her, “that you must return to Europe. That is the proper, indeed the only, place where you may study under the American physicians. Of course; I understand this completely.” From his tone, he might as well have said, Yes, water is indeed wet.
“And you have no reservations?”
“Only one.” Now it was Rik’s eyes that fell. “That you will find someone you prefer to me.”
What? She stood instantly. “That will not happen.”
“But . . . I—”
“Surely you must have learned, and seen further evidence in this decision I have taken, that I know my own mind, Rik Bjelke. You are the man for me; there is no other.” She stared at him.
He stared back, perplexed.
Leonora fussed with the hem of her new dress, counted the seconds. She was in no rush. She could be patient. To help, she would start counting.
When she reached “three,” her patience was quite gone. “Well, what are you waiting for?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, are you going to formally propose or not? I am a modern woman; I do not insist that you take a knee to do so.” She twinkled. “But it would be nice.”
* *
*
When Hugh O’Donnell’s bark Eire came round the headland and saw Oranjestad Bay once again cluttered with ships, and some kind of celebration in full swing, he wondered if Oranjestad was now hosting quarterly trade markets. But no, the balance of new vessels were warships, including not two, but four steamships. Well, no great shock there.
But what did surprise him as the festivities began shifting more into the town’s streets, was the sight of a lone figure, waiting at the end of the wharf. A woman. No, it couldn’t be . . .
But it was indeed Sophie Rantzau.
He belayed his earlier order to make fast halfway down the dock: Berth Eire here, at the far end, and smartly, if you please! Which didn’t make the next nine minutes feel any less like nine hours.
When he finally jumped down to the wood planks, Sophie simply smiled and put out one hand. He took it; she nodded, turned, and walked, leading him off the wharf. He didn’t need to know where they were going; that she had learned of his arrival and taken special pains to meet him as soon as he stepped off his ship left him so overjoyed that he was the slightest bit light-headed.
She headed south, not on the irregular and rocky shore, but on the embankment of long grass that followed along above it. When they got to a place where all they could see and hear was the ocean, the wind, and each other, she stopped and sat. She did it so suddenly, without hint or preamble, that for a moment, he didn’t even know what to say.
She didn’t give him the chance to find words; she had her own ready. “Hugh O’Donnell, I love you and we should live our lives together however we wish. Whatever that might mean, here in this truly New World. I no longer care what consequences may follow back in the Old World. What rights to property I might still possess in Denmark would likely be forfeit. I would not be surprised if I was exiled. Or if we were condemned in our respective churches. None of that matters. The only thing that matters is whether or not you still have the feelings in your heart that you professed in that poem.”
“No,” Hugh said, “they are not the same. They have grown stronger with each passing day, Sophie Rantzau. Yes, we shall live our lives together. And I have given much thought to that, as well.”
He smiled. “I confess, it is hard to see what that means exactly, what shape it takes, when two people join in a union solely of their own making, rather than one sanctioned by a church.” He leaned toward her. “But a woman who can lead me along a foreign shore without a word of invitation or explanation can certainly lead me into the uncharted territory of such a union. And I will follow. As gladly as I followed you here.”
She smiled and leaned toward him and their lips met. It was a very long, and in some ways, very careful kiss. The passion he felt, and sensed in her, had to be contained, at least until the words that she had come to speak were all spoken. And then, there was the irony of the union to which they had just consented. He almost laughed at it.
She drew back, not offended or alarmed, but wondering and wry at the same time. “I was not aware my lips were so . . . deficient.”
He laughed. “Now there’s a statement fully at odds with reality. I have never encountered lips so very much without deficiency!”
“Then what amuses you?”
“Merely this: a few days ago, I received a telegram that shines a rather different light on the ostracization that you and I had both expected. It seems that the world is determined to defy human projection. Well, at least my projections.”
Sophie looked neither happy nor worried at his comments, merely intrigued. “And what surprising reactions have you had?”
He produced an already well-worn and much-seamed flimsy from his pocket. “My godmother Isabella, the archduchess of the Spanish Lowlands, had this to say in response to our intentions as they existed, and related to her, just before I gave you the poem.” He read from the paper. “‘Dearest godson, I cannot fully express my delight that your heart has found its own measure and mate. And I am untroubled by the condemnation you wisely anticipate, because a marriage so at odds with convenience must surely be one of love. A stronger bond than this cannot be hoped for.’”
He managed not to smile at seeing Sophie’s eyes so much wider than he had ever seen them before. Unable to resist a little waggish fun, he added, “She goes on to mention that she was set to fight tooth and nail to ensure that Fernando, King of the Lowlands, would grant me a title, but it seemed no persuasion was necessary. He was already contemplating what rank and estate he might confer—his words, now—‘in appreciation for the earl of Tyrconnell’s signal actions in securing and defending Our oil interests on Trinidad.’”
Hugh folded the paper. “Well, although someone obviously exaggerated my deeds and merit, I shan’t look in this gift horse’s mouth. Oh, and by the way, he was happy to give his official blessing to our marriage, and apparently convinced Pope Bedmar himself to go along. Although that’s hardly necessary, now that we are relying upon ourselves as the basis of whatever union we shall have.”
Sophie was still staring. “And . . . and with all that laid at your—at our—feet, you are still satisfied with a union of our own design and making? There is much in what you just shared that speaks to a most promising future.”
Hugh shrugged. “I often give quite a lot of thought to the future. But today, as far as what comes next . . . I’m resolved to think about that later. I can’t even say when I will think on it, if at all. I have been a creature of duty all my life, and right now, there is no reason to worry about how these grand honors could affect my future, because the having of them will not hasten the one reason I might hold them dear: a concrete opportunity to address Ireland’s many needs. Alas, that bright hope remains well beyond a horizon over which it may never rise.”
Sophie sat silently and seemed to be considering his words in far greater depth than he had. “So,” Hugh continued in a lighter tone, “since we have decided upon going forward together, what shall we do first?”
Sophie’s expression had not changed, however. She nodded slowly, solemnly. “First and foremost, we must do the right thing.”
“Which is?”
“This.” She took his hand, but it was a serious, firm grasp. She breathed deeply. “We must acknowledge that for others, if not ourselves, it seems the best way to begin our union is, in fact, to be married. In a church that will marry us across our faiths.”
“Sophie, darling; my head is spinning far more than when we danced, and it was like as a top, then. That was the shortest independent union a man and woman have ever known, I’ll wager. So please, help me understand how the marital bonds we just agreed were wrong for our union are now ‘the right thing to do’?”
She took his hand in both of his. “Because there is a country that may one day look to you. For the sake of those people, the life you make with me must not divide them in their willingness to rally behind you and to take up arms against their oppressors, should it come to that. If neither one of us had responsibilities beyond our personal happiness, then we might decide differently. But the strange lottery that decrees to whom and into what circumstance each one of us are born has decreed differently for you. And therefore, if we are to be together, I must share that duty with you.” She sighed. “But I do not think my choice will be so blessed by those of my own country. I cannot foresee Christian IV being comfortable with one of his Lutheran nobles marrying so very far outside their faith and traditions.”
“You mean, by marrying a papist from a country of bog-hoppers?”
“That is not how I think of it, but it may very well be how he does.”
“Well, then,” Hugh said lightly, slipping an arm around Sophie’s surprisingly muscular shoulder, “we’ll just have to convince him otherwise, won’t we?”
Chapter 69
Outside Oranjestad, St. Eustatia
Hans Musen did not like going to what Jehan de Bruyne called his “villa.”
However, he allowed, the building did warrant the label. It was the largest hou
se on St. Eustatia, situated on the largest tract, was kept and maintained spotlessly, and was fitted with furnishings from all over the world. The food was always good, the drink was better. And because both Musen’s wife and Jan Haet’s were always invited along with them, it made the wives happy in the days leading up to the visit. Although afterwards, they complained for days about the comparative shabbiness of their own domiciles. Hans suspected that his wife even harbored amorous feelings for de Bruyne, who, for his part, gave no sign of having ever noticed.
But that wasn’t the real reason Hans Musen did not like trips to the de Bruyne villa. It was because all such invitations were, in reality, a summons. Usually to be peremptorily told what to do, or castigated for having carried it out improperly. And today was shaping up to be no exception to that rule.
After a light meal that was too early to lunch, Jehan had asked them to join him for schnapps in the study. Which was another overly grand label, Musen thought, but de Bruyne did have a large desk in there and shelves of books.
However, Jan Haet was hardly in his seat before he had bolted back his schnapps and commenced ranting about conditions over the last several months. About how intolerable they had become, how the landowners who had converted their slaves into bondsmen were actually becoming more affluent than they were. “Our life here,” he railed, “and all our plans to disgrace Tromp and keep our slaves are coming apart. The slaves we leased for labor are coming back having been trained for the militia. And not just with weapons. One of my foremen tried disciplining a recent returnee for sullenness and found himself thrown to the ground. Except he wasn’t really thrown; it was some trick, some movement of the hips and legs that turned his charge into a fall. And the idiot did nothing! Didn’t use the whip! I wouldn’t have blamed him for using his machete or pistol, if it came to it. But instead he walked away, making threats. And now it is too late to make an example of the resentful creature without looking weak. Without looking like a husband who does not strike his harpy wife as soon as an insult comes out of her mouth.” Haet stopped, almost panting with indignation.
