Collected Driblets of Baen at Dahak's Orbit at the Fifth Imperium for the 1637NoPeaceBeyondtheLine Snippet Collection Feed

1637NoPeaceBeyondtheLine 23C - Wed Nov 4 7:01:29 EST 2020

Wed, 04 Nov 2020 07:01:29 -0500

"1637NoPeaceBeyondtheLine 23C last updated Wed Nov 4 7:01:29 EST 2020

Leonora forced herself to become calm. “Sophie, you did not act to deprive Laurids of his life. And whatever you may have felt about your marriage, I do not believe you wished him dead, did you?”

Sophie shook her head mutely.

“And you only learned of the three other children afterward, so they could not even have been a part of your initial reaction to his death.”

Sophie looked up. “What point are you driving toward, Leonora?”

The young woman considered. “You have read much of the up-timer literature?”

“As much as I can, but it was mostly histories, since that is what fascinated Laurids. Ironically, the copies he commissioned arrived two years after he died.”

“How much of the up-time ‘psychology’ have you read?”

“I know the word, and the basic principles, but nothing specific.”

“I see. Well then, when you have the opportunity, you must come to peruse the complete copies that my father has in his library. And once there, you must look up the term ‘survivor guilt.'”

And Sophie asked, as Leonora had hoped: “What is survivor guilt?”

“It means that when, in a group of people, only a few survive, those survivors may feel guilty not to have lost their lives, too. It was often observed when the up-timers’ ships sank or their flying machines crashed. It happens with them much, much more than with us, because so many people of our time are convinced that God chooses, with great purpose, who shall live and who shall die.” And there is a statement that damns me, Sophie: “many people of our time are convinced that God chooses . . .” — but not me. Not anymore. “There is much more to it than that, of course. And, since I am a wall-flower at these dances and parties, I shall have ample time to explain more of it this evening, if you so wish.”

Sophie smiled. “I do so wish. And thank you for not insisting on returning to the matter of my surname.”

Leonora blinked. “To be truthful, I had quite forgotten about it. I take it you were referring, then, to why you are not using the name Ulfeldt?”

“Yes, that is part of it. Although it wasn’t even my own doing.”

“I do not understand.”

“That is because you are not the daughter of my mother. It was she who compelled me to keep my name Rantzau, so that the estates in my father’s name would not be so easily subsumed into the growing treasury of the Ulfeldt family. And also to ensure that my name did not strike the ear of your father with an immediate spark of pain and annoyance.”

Hearing those words, Leonora felt her very own spark of pain. “Well, that is truly said.”

Sophie’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, Leonora, I am so sorry. I was too deeply involved in my own regrets. I forgot that you, too –“

“There is nothing to be sorry for. The dissolution of my betrothal to Corfitz Ulfeldt is past and done. Do not trouble yourself with any thoughts of it. I don’t,” Leonora lied.

Sophie’s eyes remained upon her, gentle but steady. “You are a strong young woman, Leonora, and driven by a quiet but firm will that many might miss. I can even imagine it extends to embrace the idea that one finds in so many of the up-time attitudes, and in their later writings: that a woman need not be defined by any man, not even her spouse or father. A fearsome thing for many of this world. Conversely, it is a refreshing, even life-saving, freedom to a few of us. But I wonder –“

Leonora heard that last fragment of a sentence for what it was: a baited hook, which, if inquired after, would catch her on a question she might regret. But as ever, her curiosity was greater than her fear: “What is it that you wonder?”

“Whether any girl, at the age of eleven, has ever been completely indifferent to having a betrothal struck aside by her royal father? And to a powerful man who, I am told, showed as much affection toward you as he ever has toward anyone else.”

Yes, as much as that was. And would have been more properly avuncular, since he is more than twice my age. “It was a disappointment, yes, but even then, I realized that although father’s first thought was to protect himself and the throne, his nullification of our betrothal was a blessing to my future happiness.” She leaned back, vaguely remembered that if she did not triumph over her annoying, mousy brown hair, she could not countenance going to tonight’s party at all. “I remember quite clearly when my father’s first agents returned from Grantville, just before summer, 1633. Corfitz, who had been his favorite courtier, had not only been a traitor to him in the other world, but the documents revealed that he had already commenced pursuing the earliest of those same treacheries in this one. There was no explaining the future events as a sad set of unfortunate circumstances in which some combination of flawed perception and momentary lapses of integrity had led him down a path that history contrived to paint in unflattering hues. No, his flaws of character were revealed to be many and monstrous. Indeed, in retrospect, much of the wit and charm with which he had captivated my father upon his arrival in court had barely masked a scheming mind overwhelmingly shaped by two principles: ruthlessness and ambition.”

“I have heard,” Sophie ventured, “that although he has committed no overt crime against the throne, your father’s rejection of him has made him so vituperative and disruptive in the Rigsrad that it might be best if he were to be banned from it. Given that the new trade and cooperative industries with the up-timers is bringing Denmark far more silver than Corfitz’s own fiscal proposals, there are very likely enough sympathetic nobles to make such a dismissal possible.”

“Yes. I have heard the same things whispered,” Leonora said with a nod. “But I suspect that my father has reservations about doing so.”

“Your father is, of course, quite politically prudent.”

Yes, Sophie, he is. But prudence is not why he has foresworn what would amount to a public crucifixion of Corfitz Ulfeldt. The question is, should I share the actual reasons with you? Are they too hurtful? And will the subjectivity of memory — my memory — do them justice?

As if magically summoned by that final concern, her memory seemed to wipe away her sight, expanding and unfolding until, quite suddenly, she was in that past moment, almost a year ago this very day . . .

1637NoPeaceBeyondtheLine 23B - Mon Nov 2 18:50:38 EST 2020

Mon, 02 Nov 2020 18:50:38 -0500

"1637NoPeaceBeyondtheLine 23B last updated Mon Nov 2 18:50:38 EST 2020

Sophie smiled. “My surname, of course.”

Cautiously now, Leonora! “What is strange about it?”

“That it is still affixed to my person. You know, of course, that I was married.”

“Y-yes.” It would not do to let Sophie know how very much Leonora knew of this. Her very personal curiosity could easily be misunderstood as mere nosiness. “Your husband died in the Baltic War, did he not?”

“Yes, he did. So I am familiar with the many ways in which mourning can become a burden more trying than the grief that may underlie it. Or not.”

Suddenly, Leonora was unsure that she wanted to hear Sophie’s unuttered truth. But she was also aware that there was no way to stop it now. To flinch away from it, to smother it before it could leave Sophie’s lips, would be to show herself a coward, to be unworthy of trust, and so, to be unworthy of further shared revelations. And so Leonora took what she knew to be a fateful step: “I am unsure how best to understand that statement, dear Sophie.”

Who smiled. “That was well and delicately put, Leonora. I thank you for being so patient with me. This is difficult to speak of. Not the least because I fear it will make you — your sister, too, but particularly you — think ill of me.”

Leonora did not know what to say: she simply shook her head.

Sophie drew in a deep breath. “I was married to Laurids Ulfeldt in October of 1631, had our child in June of the following year, and lost that child soon after. But by that time he had been sent to serve under Anders Bille on the island of Osel. Which is where he died, early in 1633, trying to intercept a boat of Swedish couriers. Which only occurred because Gustav did not die at LÃ¼tzen, which in turn led to your father’s eventual war against him. So, in point of fact, Laurids died when he did because the up-timers arrived and changed history.”

Sophie turned to face Leonora directly. “You are not the only one to spend much of your life transported to other places and other times in the pages of a book. As is true for so many of us, I became curious about what had happened to me in the up-timers’ world. Last year, I finally had the chance to peruse their collected histories.” She smiled. “It was a humbling thing, to see what little mention there was of me at all, other than that I was a ‘rich heiress’ who had married Laurids Ulfeldt. Who, I discovered, was to have lived much longer. And with whom I was to have had four children.”

Leonora felt tears rise into her eyes, but did not blink, did not let them escape. At the age of seven, harshly treated by the parental surrogates who had raised her while she was away from her father’s court, she had resolved never to shed tears again.

Sophie’s eyes widened. She reached out and touched Leonora’s cheek. “No. Do not weep. Not for me. And most of all, not for what you think is my grief.”

“What?” Leonora croaked.

“My dear friend, you know what the Ulfeldt family is like. Laurids was the best of them, true, but they are not . . . not warm men. Nor sensitive, nor compassionate. He was more physically vital than most of them, but not what one would call vigorous. He spent most of the few days we had together immersed in his books, pursuing his ‘historical projects,’ as he called them.”

Sophie laughed, shook her head. “That was to have been the great bond between us, you see: books. Except that he used them as a means of making things smaller, as a way to fit all life — what had come before and what was transpiring around him — into neat compartments and categories, whereas I used them to rove far and wide, to the ends of this earth and beyond.” Her rueful smile faded. “I suppose one could say nothing defined the differences between us so sharply and so sadly as the reasons for which we embraced books. Which was the majority of the embracing that occurred in our marriage.”

For the first time since Leonora had met Sophie, the young woman averted her eyes. “So you see, Leonora, I know what it is like to mourn and yet not feel grief. I am not saying that this is what is occurring behind the hard facade that Edel Mund shows to the world. Frankly, I think something different afflicts her. But I know what it is like to wear black, and step slowly and heavily because it is what is expected of a mourning wife, but to feel nothing but relief within. And in that relief, feel oneself base and monstrous.”

“But how? And for what?” Leonora blurted out. “For being rid of a man you did not love, never wished to marry? Because, Sophie, it was no secret that your mother engineered that marriage, in no small part to secure allies who would protect her from my father’s wrath. What would you feel but relief in escaping from such a union? And why, therefore, should you feel such guilt?”

“Because my guilt does not arise from escaping my marriage to Laurids,” Sophie explained hollowly, “but from dancing away to my freedom upon the ghost bodies of three more little children to whom I never gave birth. And for living past my time.”

Leonora did not breathe. “What do you mean?”

Sophie’s eyes rose back to Leonora’s. “One of the other things the histories revealed about me was my date of death: May, 1635. Just as we were preparing to leave for the New World, I had, in that other history, left the world entirely.”

Leonora went from horrified to confused in the space of a single second. “But then, how did you have four children–?”

Sophie shook her head. “In that other history, Laurids was only briefly on Osel. With Gustav dead, the Baltic War never occurred, the tensions were brief, and he returned. But here, he never returned from Osel and so, did not father three more children. For which I am unspeakably grateful. And for which I must certainly be damned.”

“Damned?”

“How can I not be, Leonora? I wake every morning and breathe a sigh of relief that I am no longer married to Laurids Ulfeldt. And then I remember, in the next breath, that my freedom comes at the expense of his life and that of three unborn children. How does that not damn one?”

1637NoPeaceBeyondtheLine 23A - Fri Oct 30 7:03:55 EDT 2020

Fri, 30 Oct 2020 07:03:55 -0400

"1637NoPeaceBeyondtheLine 23A last updated Fri Oct 30 7:03:55 EDT 2020

Oranjestad, St. Eustatia

Leonora was grumpy. Yes, she had reason for disappointment, but it went beyond that. First, the seamstress who was to make necessary changes to the one gown she had brought from Denmark was overdue and her services were absolutely required. Leonora was still only fourteen and just six months’ worth of bodily change — much of which was quite welcome! — absolutely required alterations or profound embarrassment might ensue.

Secondly, after spending half an hour fretting over the tardiness of the seamstress and ineffectually primping, Sophie returned — who announced her arrival with a set of sharp knocks to the door of their shared toilet. Leonora had been deeply involved in her third attempt to adjust her hair and the surprise turned her untrained touch into a brief eruption of startled fingers that ruined her already dubious handiwork.

And of course, once Sophie had settled in to her own pre-dance preparations, Leonora had to stay calm and casual in her choice of topics while her curiosity — her desire to know how the Earl of Tyrconnell had departed, and how Sophie felt, and what she meant to do — was threatening to burst out of her mouth, as if it were a rabid mink spinning and clawing inside of her.

She settled down for another attempt at her hair, this time with the benefit of Sophie’s calm advice. Indeed, Leonora was so set upon her efforts that the end of her tongue protruded from her lips, as if it were an external rite meant to placate the demi-deities of Focus and Determination. But no sooner had she made some appreciable progress, than the door banged open and Anne Cathrine came racing in, the overdue seamstress following just behind. Even more startled by this second interruption, the consequent ruin to Leonora’s hairstyling efforts were still worse and, to add insult to injury, she had nipped the tip of her tongue.

Anne Cathrine excitedly discoursed about Government House and Tromp and a New Start in the New World and having to make an immense number of decisions about the party that sounded unbearably dull to Leonora. In other words, it was more evidence that the universe did in fact revolve around Anne Cathrine, who punctuated her departure with a hug that ruined yet another of Leonora’s attempts to tame her hair. Despite entreaties that Anne Cathrine very likely did not hear, she did not return to help fix the damage she had wrought.

Leonora was missingÂ — for the fifth time in as many minutes — her older sister’s skill in the arts of efficacious primping and improvised makeup when there was yet another knock on the door. My word, are we to prepare for a party or answer summonses?

Sophie Rantzau glanced at Leonora. “A reply to a knock is at the discretion of the King’s daughter,” she murmured.

Well, bother; I suppose that’s true. “Yes?” Leonora called toward the door.

“It is I, Edel Mund. May I enter briefly?”

The two young women exchanged glances. Leonora knew what she wanted to do: ignore the Medusa-in-mourning who had inexplicably come to their doorstep at this most unprovidential moment. But instead she said, “Yes, of course, Lady Mund.”

The door opened, and Edel Mund, more spare and pale than ever, entered and nodded severely at Leonora and Sophie, her eyes questing into the further corners of the room.

“My sister is not here,” Leonora explained. “She is preparing for attending this evening’s entertainment, I’m afraid.”

Edel Mund nodded again. “I see. Then I will ask you to be so kind to convey to her the message I share with you here. I extend my apologies, ladies, but I must refrain from attending that affair, despite your sister’s kind solicitation for my presence. It would still be — unseemly for me to do so.”

“– even if I were disposed to go,” Leonora finished silently for the middle-aged woman. “I hear this news with regret, but fully understand.” What I do not understand is how long you intend to mourn your husband.

“Also, I would be most grateful if, when next you see Dr. BrandÃ£o, you would tell him that I wish to volunteer my services to him, as well. I expect I would be a passably capable nurse.”

Leonora nodded, quite sure that what Edel lacked in bedside manner and compassion she would make up for in efficiency and reliability. “I am sure Dr. BrandÃ£o will be delighted to welcome you into our little hospital.”

Edel made no response, other than to bow slightly, her black shoulder-wrap hanging slightly. “Ladies, I am sorry to have intruded at so inopportune a moment.” Without any sign of haste, she was nonetheless out the door with remarkable speed.

Leonora blinked, shrugged, returned to the task of securing an yet another errant wisp of hair in its proper place. “Lady Mund is a most peculiar person,” she observed. “And I can only imagine that her continued mourning intensifies her peculiarities.”

Sophie Rantzau, whose long, gleaming hair remained infuriatingly perfect without any apparent effort on her part, looked at the closed door with solemn gray eyes. “I suspect we are seeing more than the oddities of her character or the distraction of extended mourning.”

“What do you mean, Sophie?”

“I mean that, in the terms of life as she has chosen to live it, volunteering to help with the sick and wounded is a form of penance.”

“Penance? But for what? Edel Mund is hardly a model of Christian charity or joy, but neither does she seem a great sinner. What could she have done to make her feel compelled to do penance?”

Sophie Rantzau’s tone suggested she was sharing a secret rather than a comment. “For many of us, penance is owed not for what one has done, but for what one did not do.”

Leonora looked over cautiously at Sophie. The tall young woman was still staring at the back of the door. “You said that with great conviction. Personal conviction.” Leonora was tempted to say more, but knew that she could not, not unless she wished to chase her silent friend’s own emerging truth — or confession? — back into whatever deep hiding place it had inhabited before Edel Mund’s odd visit had summoned it forth.

“My name,” Sophie said softly. “Has it never struck you as strange?”

Leonora, who had been holding her breath in anticipation of a great revelation, was taken off guard by this strange redirection. If it was, in fact, a redirection. Perhaps it was merely an oblique means of approaching the painful core of whatever truth Sophie kept buried. Because certainly, no one would be as laconic as she unless they were, in fact suppressing something. “I have never thought there is anything strange about your name. Also, I am unsure which name you mean: your Christian name or surname?”

1637NoPeaceBeyondtheLine 22B - Wed Oct 28 8:00:06 EDT 2020

Wed, 28 Oct 2020 08:00:06 -0400

"1637NoPeaceBeyondtheLine 22B last updated Wed Oct 28 8:00:06 EDT 2020

“But I do not know these things.”

“Perhaps not, but they will listen and obey what you tell them, Lady Anne Cathrine.” He smiled. “You may constantly point out that you are ‘only’ a king’s daughter, but they still refer to you as ‘the princess’. Without that voice of authority, they will continue to bicker with each other. You need not be knowledgeable, but even so, you will have far more knowledge than any of them, simply by dint of having been present at such expansive entertainments.”

An hour. She really didn’t have the time. But on the other hand —

Her future was here, she realized in a sudden rush. This New World, this place far away from the viper pits of Danish — no, of European — nobility: this was where she felt more vibrant, more alive, more useful, than she ever had in her entire life. And maybe, just maybe, she could have a hand in guiding it to evolve toward . . . toward what?

Toward something better, affirmed a blunt, practical voice in her head. Toward a community where one’s daughters and principles and “friendships” were not employed as chess-pieces in a sweeping, unending, and insufferable game of accruing and preserving power. She did not envision a Utopia; she already knew too much of human nature to consider that anything more than a quixotic dream. But she could help make this New World better, perhaps much the same way that Grantville had wrought wondrous changes in the old one.

She turned to Tromp. “Yes. I will help. Would you be so kind as to escort me there?”

Three hours later, Anne Cathrine emerged from the same door, where Tromp — who had been called to other matters — had agreed to meet her when she sent for him. She was exhausted but energized. She did not care much for the topics upon which she had been called to make decisions, but, well — she most certainly did like making decisions. And here in the New World, she was not being pushed behind those who held power; she was being drawn forward to wield it. Her thoughts flashed to Eddie, and she felt blood rushing to the places where thoughts of him usually hastened it.

But upon seeing Tromp, she stilled that as best she could and nodded at him. “I believe you shall find that this evening’s entertainment will still be chaotic, but at least its delivery shall not be divisive.”

He bowed deeply. “Lady Anne Cathrine, you have done all that I could have hoped and more.”

“Then Admiral, I wonder if you will do something for me in return.”

Tromp was too experienced to be giddy at the prospect of furnishing recompense for her efforts; it was the way of kings and their families, and it was one of their least welcome habits. He stood, almost stiffly. “Certainly.”

She gestured at Government House behind him. “This place is a mystery. I would have you explain it to me.”

He frowned. “I am not sure what you are referring to, Lady Anne Cathrine.”

“It was originally built as the Governor’s House. I remember the first time I saw the inside of it.”

Tromp nodded. “The New Year’s party. Just six months ago.”

“Yes. A quaint and intimate event compared to what will be held here in but four hours. But between that first event and this one, and without any announcements, it became Government House. Two immense wings to either side, an even greater expansion to the rear to create a great hall.” She began walking in the direction of the house she and Eddie had been given as the senior representatives of a foreign power. “Why these changes?”

Tromp put his hands behind his back, head down, and considered a moment before answering. He resembled a school master, again.

“There are ticklish subjects involved in this explanation. I will trust that you will not share them with anyone except your husband.”

“He is not already aware?”

Tromp shrugged. “Very possibly. It was not purposefully kept from him. But he was busy with the planning and preparations for the interception of La Flota, and there was no reason to distract him with such details.

“So: when the time came for Jan — Governor Walbeeck — to take up residence in the Governor’s House, he decided it would be unwise. After seeing the almost desperate merriment of the New Year’s Party, he came to realized that the building was sorely needed by the community as a place to gather, whether to celebrate, debate, or mourn.

“He also perceived that, although it is a colonial tradition that the governor should have a separate, and large, residence, there were political frictions here on St. Eustatia which made that inadvisable. Too many of our people were still living in tents. And if resentment for that privilege struck even the smallest sparks of resentment, our political opponents — this island’s stubborn and increasingly obstreperous slaveholders — were likely to attempt to fan those sparks into a conflagration.”

Anne Cathrine frowned. “Could they have succeeded, do you think?”

Tromp shrugged again. “Even if they had not, van Walbeeck foresaw that if the slave-holders made so overt an attempt to undermine our authority, that act would draw permanent battle lines. Even if the colonists were indifferent or unfriendly to their cause, the resulting pall of discord and animus would not readily dissipate. Morale would have suffered when we needed it to be strong. So van Walbeeck elected to retain his apartment in the fort until a more modest domicile could be built for the governor’s use.

“Within weeks, however, we began discovering yet another reason why we needed to convert the Governor’s House into Government House; we needed more space for our administrators and officials. More specifically, with the USE’s fleet permanently in the New World, and trade ties rapidly increasing between the cast-off communities that had once been England’s possessions, we found ourselves appointing a harbor master, a customs and tariff office, a sheriff, a court of justice, a deeds and titles registry and archive.”

Anne Cathrine raised an eyebrow. “I have been told that Spanish colonies often do without such formalities for years, even decades.”

Tromp nodded. “And that is quite true, but that is because their leadership in the New World follows the true nature of governance in Spain itself: highly centralized autocratic power. They only introduce additional layers of control when they must, which creates a rigid, tiered hierarchy in which even the lowest positions are as often filled by nepotism as proven qualifications.”

Anne Cathrine smiled. “Whereas you innovative, independent, and contentious Dutch rely on public offices not merely for order, but to prevent excessive centralization of power.” She smiled wider when Tromp glanced at her sharply, surprised, but also pleased. “My father has made quite a study of your government. He admires it. He also fears that if that model becomes popular in Denmark, it might undermine his throne.”

Tromp chuckled. “Yes, because our system is so much better: a marginally competent civil service shot through with a double skein of bribery and cronyism.”

They shared a laugh. They then walked in silence for almost a minute.

Anne Cathrine looked up at him. “So, you do not feel the Dutch system is much better than a monarchy?”

Tromp frowned, head down as he walked and reflected. “I simply meant to underscore that it is by no means perfect, or even particularly fair.” He paused as they arrived at her door. “But I will not serve an absolute king, and would die fighting to keep my country from having one. If I felt otherwise, our half century of struggle against the Spanish means we were not fighting for our freedom, but over whose collar we would wear.”

She smiled slowly. “I shall see you again tonight, Admiral.”

“That shall be my honor and my pleasure, Lady Anne Cathrine. Here comes Pudsey; my happy duty escorting you is at an end.” He bowed and left at a brisk walk.

Pudsey approached. “That seemed a most serious talk you were having with the Admiral, Lady Anne.” He tried to inject a lighter tone. “From the looks on your faces, it seemed as if you might be solving the problems of this old world.”

“No,” she mused, looking after the admiral’s retreating and entirely average figure, “we were talking about how best to build this new one.”

1637NoPeaceBeyondtheLine 22A - Mon Oct 26 7:56:22 EDT 2020

Mon, 26 Oct 2020 07:56:22 -0400

"1637NoPeaceBeyondtheLine 22A last updated Mon Oct 26 7:56:22 EDT 2020

Oranjestad, St. Eustatia

Moments after retrieving the already-anxious Cuthbert Pudsey, a familiar voice with a Dutch accent inquired, “Do you approve of the preparations, Lady Anne Cathrine?”

She turned after an instant’s delay: the time it took for her to be sure that she had successfully pasted a smile over her expression of surprise and fear that, somehow, someone had seen her eavesdropping in the infirmary.

Maarten Tromp was standing just to one side, hands folded before him. As he often did, he radiated fatherly approval and regard — which at this moment, made her feel incongruously like a naughty, sneaky, child, even thought she had now almost reached the unthinkably advanced age of eighteen. “Why yes, Admiral,” she answered, glancing at the sail-derived pavilion and the crude tables beneath it, “I could not approve more. Not that my approval is of any particularly importance!”

Whereas Leonora nodded and announced, “They seem quite wonderful!”

He smiled, beginning to stroll as he gestured at his intended path, inviting them to walk with him. “I must differ with you regarding the importance of your approval, Lady Anne Cathrine. You and your sister have seen more of such events than anyone else here. With the exception of the others that came with you from your father’s court, none of us are well-acquainted with the staging of such large celebrations.” He chuckled. “I fear that you will have to be willing to tolerate a large measure of what burgers and the gentry consider ‘an entertainment.'”

Anne Cathrine did not have to summon or amplify her responding laugh. “Admiral, if you could only imagine how dull and downright plodding the majority of state affairs prove to be. Most of the men are too old, busy, and ‘dignified’ to dance, whereas their wives are equally old, busy, and self-conscious of the infirmities that impede their grace. And for every such infirmity that is actual, there are a dozen that are imagined, though they may be painfully real in the minds of those who believe themselves afflicted. The food is plentiful, and so, wasted in quantities that would feed whole villages. The wine and drink is equally plentiful, but the opposite problem obtains; so much is consumed that felicity becomes besotted carousing.”

“And conjugal incapacity later on,” Leonora added casually. When she noted Tromp’s startled stare and Cuthbert’s delighted surprise, she blinked. “What? Are we not simply speaking truths that society is typically too polite to utter?”

Anne Cathrine smiled winningly, while thinking, Dear sister, would that your social sensibilities were so well-tuned as your intellectual gifts. Aloud: “My sister’s convictions, and the courage with which she shares them, are among the rarest of gifts. Alas that she hasn’t the time to share more.”

“I don’t?”

Anne Cathrine tried to make sure that her smile did not evolve into a grimace. “You have forgotten? That you and Sophie agreed to prepare for the party together?”

Leonora’s eyelids opened wider. “Oh, yes! I quite forgot! You must excuse me!”

The others waved her on her way. Anne Cathrine was simply glad that the excuse was genuine; Sophie and Leonora had indeed felt that it would be pleasant for them to help each other primp for the great event. Whereas, had Anne Cathrine fabricated a groundless excuse on the spot, Leonora would almost certainly have argued that there was no such appointment, rather than taking the hint. Instead, she ran off with the blind abandon spawned by that sudden fixity of purpose observable in fourteen-year-olds the world over, nobility or not.

Pudsey looked around for her escort. “Er, Lady Sophie, about your sister…”

Anne Cathrine was doubly relieved. “Go with her until she is safe in our house, Cuthbert. I am sure that the admiral or one of his staff will see me safely home.”

Tromp smiled at the mercenary-become-protector-of-noble-ladies. “My word on it.”

“Obliged, sir!” Pudsey answered and trundled after Leonora.

Before Anne Cathrine could speak, Tromp began walking, murmuring, “I am glad for this opportunity to speak with you.”

“What about, Admiral?”

Tromp made a huffing sound that took her a few seconds to recognize as a heavily suppressed chortle. “Merry-making.”

She smiled. “I doubt I am your best resource for that! I have attended many balls and dances and dinners, but have not spent a moment ever planning one or observing the process.”

Tromp nodded as they strolled out from under the west pavilion and crossed in front of the entrance to Government House. “And yet you have more experience of them, from which we may hope to interpolate what must go into their making.”

She tried not to frown. “Admiral, I am flattered that you reside such trust in my opinions, but at this late hour . . .”

He held up a hand as they stopped in front of Government House. “I fully realize that this is an extraordinary imposition, made more so by coming to you at, almost literally, the last possible minute. But before you object, please, let me explain.

“Lady Anne Cathrine, as you could not have failed to notice, I am not a man who has spent much time observing society, let alone the ways of the nobility. All I know about entertainments, regardless of their type, is whether I am enjoying them or not. My colleagues and officers are cut from the same cloth; our involvement has always been in matters that are intensely practical, if not barbaric. We are military men, after all.

“In consequence, we planned carefully for these days when so many people would come to Oranjestad, for this opportunity to fix it in so many minds as a hub not only of commerce and power, but society, opportunity, and entertainment. So naturally, we always envisioned a party, but particularly a dance, an event where new romantic friendships may be kindled and so, start to bind all our islands together with even stronger ties. But in all of those considerations, no one ever stopped to ask: ‘but who shall oversee this party?'”

He looked up at Government House, the facade of which was three stories high. Its wings and the rear extension were only two floors. “We considered the space we needed, we allowed for food and drink, where they would be prepared and in what quantities. We asked for volunteers to help with that service and promised tariff relief as an incentive, and so accrued more willing hands than we know what to do with. We even contacted the musicians among us, who used the last two days of strolling the streets as a time to rehearse and prepare.

He sighed. “We were military men approaching this objective as we would any other; identify and gather resources at the time and place where they are needed.” He huff-laughed again. “But somehow, we missed the final analogy that should have been the first thing we determined: to recruit a knowledgeable commander for this enterprise.” He glanced at Anne Cathrine.

“Admiral, even if I was capable and willing to take on this great enterprise” — God forbid! I’m better at a council table or commanding defenders, and I’d prefer the dangers of either before the drudgery of this! — “I am expected to be at the party. I was honored to have so many notes sent to my house expressing the fond hope that I might reserve a minute of the evening to spend with its sender.” She smiled. “I also know what those requests really mean. They are oblique attempts to gain access to my ear. The majority of those correspondents hope to enlist my support, or acquaint me with an issue germane to their own interests, or speak to any one of a number of important people who are routinely in my circle of acquaintance: Hannibal Sehested, Governor Walbeeck, you, my husband, even my father.”

She put a hand to her head; it was really rather dizzying as, speaking it out all at once, she realized just how big a fish she had become in this little pond. “I agreed to dozens of such brief meetings that will, I am sure, all go on too long. Governor van Walbeeck prevailed upon me to do so, if for no other reason than these are all persons who are wealthy, influential, or ambitious. And the more of them who know that they will be able to speak with me, the more of them will attend. And the more of them who attend, the more prestigious the event becomes, and so the desire to be seen at it spreads like wildfire. And so it has. And so I may not be absent from the event, given the role to which I am already committed.”

At about the halfway point of her explanation, Tromp had again folded his hands patiently in front of him. “That is why I am asking you to give us only an hour now. To answer the questions of the volunteers and servers, not officer them through the event. We lack the knowledge to tell them what will please the guests the most, what music and dances were last in fashion, how and when to best serve food and drink.”

1637NoPeaceBeyondtheLine 21B - Mon Oct 26 7:54:55 EDT 2020

Mon, 26 Oct 2020 07:54:55 -0400

"1637NoPeaceBeyondtheLine 21B last updated Mon Oct 26 7:54:55 EDT 2020

“Seems to me we are here to spy on matters that are manifestly none of our business. And how is it that Sophie’s understanding of personal matters might be lacking? She is a widow, she knows –“

“Her marriage was arranged for her. Just as Poppa had planned for you and me, until we were saved by the changes wrought by the up-timers. Now be silent or begone!”

“This is wrong,” Leonora grumbled. But she craned her neck to get a better look through the crack of the door.

The knock at the infirmary’s front entrance was so gentle that they barely heard it. The door itself was not in their line of sight, but the soft-voiced greetings confirmed that the newly arrived patient was just who they expected: Hugh O’Donnell.

Anne Cathrine listened as pleasantries transitioned into medical practicalities. He explained how he no longer felt any pain in it, and attributed that to both her skill and her solicitude. Anne Cathrine smiled: good!

Sophie breezed past that compliment — and opportunity to shift the conversation to a more personal level — by pointing out that it was difficult to know when a healing process could be considered complete, and commenced to bombard the earl with a battery of inquiries: did the amputation site, or remaining digit, ever feel hot? Did it ever feel numb? Did it ever swell? Did it ever, and did it ever, and did it ever? Anne Cathrine hung her head: bad, very bad. A string of questions that had all the veiled romantic potential of a bouquet of rotting parsnips.

Hugh answered patiently, a bemused smile growing on his face as Sophie’s barrage continued. His eyes rested upon her more and more; hers were upon him less and less. Unless you counted the mauled finger: her gaze was fixed upon it. More out of desperation than clinical focus, Anne Cathrine suspected.

When Sophie finally ran out of queries, Hugh smiled broadly and declared himself the most fortunate of all patients. So fortunate, that he was half-glad to have been wounded in the first place.

Sophie was baffled. “I do not understand, Lord O’Donnell.”

He shrugged. “Well, if I hadn’t been wounded, then I might never have met you.”

The unthinkable happened: Sophie blushed. “Nonsense. A soldier should never wish for a wound, even in jest! And certainly not one that costs him a part of his body!”

Hugh tilted his head, and his smile grew very wide and so, became very bright. “Well, now, that’s a question of exchange, isn’t it?”

Sophie’s color returned to normal as she frowned, asked, “A question of exchange, Lord O’Donnell? I do not understand; what is this question and what exchange?”

His eyes became a little less jovial, a little more serious. “It is a question of whether losing half a finger is a fair price for meeting you.” He paused, waited until he had her eyes on his. “I’m thinking it to be a most excellent bargain, Lady Rantzau.”

Anne Cathrine felt like she might jump out of her skin for want of rushing in and shaking even minimal instincts for courtship into Sophie. Even Leonora murmured wordless approval of Hugh’s soulful wooing. They leaned forward, straining at the aperture between the door and the jamb, listening for Sophie’s crucial response —

“As I said at the outset, Lord O’Donnell: purest nonsense.” But as unpromising as the words were, her tone was playful. And the smile that followed them was wide and radiant. “Now let us see how it is healing.”

“Truly,” Hugh protested, “it is quite healed already.”

“I will be the judge of that,” Sophie countered as her smile changed.

Anne blinked: was that how Sophie looked when she was being…being…coy? Was “coy” even possible for Sophie the Norn, who reminded the sisters of those spirit-women of Nordic legend, those pronouncers and makers of Fate?

Sophie rose and gestured to the bench that also served as the infirmary’s couch for examinations. “Kindly be at your ease on this chair, with this hassock beneath your feet. Good. Are you comfortable? Now, just relax.”

Sophie undertook the unwrapping of the finger with deliberate — almost languorous? — care. By the time the savaged digit was revealed, the procedure had begun to border on the sensuous. She looked, saw him watching her. She returned the stare, smiled slowly. “I work best when I am not under observation, Lord O’Donnell.”

He smiled, nodded, closed his eyes.

Sophie made a genuinely thorough and attentive inspection of the still-discolored lower half of his small finger, the top half of which had been shredded by the fragments of a French grenade during his relief of Oranjestad. The remains had been promptly amputated, but BrandÃ£o had recommended against searing it, for fear of locking infection in, and his skills had been desperately required by others with far more grievous injuries. In consequence, the tip of what remained was uneven and still somewhat raw.

“I do not like the look of that,” she pronounced. “Sepsis could still occur. I have half a mind to forbid further travel until that danger is clearly past.”

Hugh smiled. “Lady Rantzau, my finger is as fit for duty as the rest of me. It was untroubled by my travels, whether at sea or in pestiferous jungles.”

Her eyelids flew wide open. “Unacceptable! I will not hear of –!”

He reached a hand toward her, not touching, but imploring. Gently. With a gesture that hinted at a caress. “I am perfectly fine, now,” Hugh reiterated. “I would not lie to you. Lies, even those little ones we tell to calm the concern of those who we hold in high regard, become barriers. And I would not have any barriers between us.”

She rose very quickly. “I am glad you believe yourself to be well, but as I already told you, I will be the judge of that, Lord O’Donnell!” Anne Cathrine smiled. Sophie was marvelous when she drew herself to her full height and became lofty and almost imperious. Anne was almost a little jealous of her.

O’Donnell was shaking his head. “I’m never one to contradict a lady, and certainly not one so skilled and determined as yourself. Besides, it’s exhausting.”

“Exhausting?”

“Well, that stands to reason, doesn’t it? Here I stand — well, recline — not only laboring to change your mind, but to remember your name.”

Now Sophie was confused. “You have difficulties remembering my name?”

“Well, it’s more a matter of remembering to call you Lady Rantzau, because in my mind, you’re Lady Sophie. For which I apologize: I’ve a most unruly and unreliable mind when it comes to remaining formal with those who’ve become special to me. But so long as you address me as Lord O’Donnell I’m fated to address you as Lady Rantzau. Whereas it would far less exhausting to simply call you Lady Sophie.” He paused, once again made sure she was looking directly at him. “I would so much rather call you that.”

Sophie didn’t respond immediately. She had rapidly transitioned from looking quite composed and happy to appearing confused, and not exactly sure why she was. Anne Cathrine wanted to shout out what she might do next, to keep this ridiculous charade of a medical examination moving in the right direction.

He smiled. “It would suit me very well, Sophie.” He said her name as if he were about to sing it.

“Well, then, I . . . I will get the linens for one last dressing. To cover it while the scar-tissue becomes stronger. I shall return momentarily.” She went to the supply room.

He smiled as he watched her go, kept watching the door as if some faint hint of her image might have been imparted to it.

Anne Cathrine wanted to stamp her feet in wild happiness, relief, and a bit of exultation. The only man she had ever seen more smitten than Hugh O’Donnell was her own darling Eddie.

Leonora, however, was looking up at her, frowning. “Yet another dressing?” she complained, forgetting to whisper. “That is totally unnecessary. His finger is perfectly fine. I can see it from here. Her so- called precautions are actually quite baffling and obtuse.”

Anne Catharine patted her hand. “As are you, sometimes, dear Leonora. As are you. Now be quiet! You were entirely too loud. So let us leave before we are detected.” As she said it she stole one more glance through the crack of the door.

Hugh O’Donnell was looking straight at her. He couldn’t actually see her, she told herself, but, well, he was certainly staring at the door. And yes, he was focused on the crevice between it and the doorjamb. He turned away, chuckled noiselessly, and put his hands behind his head and laid back.

Anne Cathrine grabbed Leonora’s arm and they left the infirmary as quickly as stealth would allow.

1637NoPeaceBeyondtheLine 21A - Mon Oct 26 7:57:19 EDT 2020

Mon, 26 Oct 2020 07:57:19 -0400

"1637NoPeaceBeyondtheLine 21A last updated Mon Oct 26 7:57:19 EDT 2020

Oranjestad, St. Eustatia

Anne Cathrine, daughter of King Christian IV by morganatic marriage (and so, not a princess) yawned, stretched, fended off the sunlight that eked in through the slight gap in the hurricane shutters. They were just slightly ajar, held there by an adjustable hook-and-eye that had been set just so.

She smiled into the morning light. That had been done by her wonderful, kind, thoughtful, Eddie. Her war-hero, ducal, up-time machine-wizard Eddie. Her adoring, innocent, and — because of that — so very, very alluring Eddie.

She sighed, let herself fall back on the same bed that had been theirs on Intrepid. She stretched her full length upon it, happy in her body, in the softness of the layers beneath her, and buried her face in the pillows which smelt faintly of sandalwood. She exhaled, inhaled, considered her great good fortune to be with Eddie, to be in this warm and beautiful place, and began sobbing uncontrollably.

An hour later, Anne Cathrine was striding purposefully from the door of their house. She was moving so quickly that Cuthbert Pudsey, the guard that Eddie had firmly insisted accompany her everywhere, had to grab the separate bits of his breakfast, weapon, helmet in order to scramble after her. “Where to, Lady Anne?”

Just as Eddie called her Cat — no; mustn’t think of that pet name, of him, of our bed — the much-displaced Pudsey was the only one to call her “Anne.” Not because of a special bond between them, although that was certainly present, now, but because the Englishman seemed incapable of remembering her full title. It wasn’t his regard or respect that was wanting. If anything, that could easily be adjusted a notch or two lower, given his unwonted proclivity for bows and hat-doffings. It was simply that Cuthbert Pudsey was what Eddie called a “total yeoman.” Loyal, respectful, practical, big-hearted, fundamentally guileless, and as incapable of recalling protocol and honorifics as he was of running to the sun and back before dinner. Occasionally, Eddie referred to him as Sam or Samwise, but she had yet to discover why.

“I say, Lady Anne, is it to the Gov’ment House we’d be going?”

“Not immediately, Cuthbert. I am meeting my sister at Dr. BrandÃ£o’s.”

“Ah,” he said as he drew alongside. He glanced at her attire. “If you’ll pardon me sayin’, m’um, you’re not in your volunteering clothes, an’ this isn’t your volunteering day. ‘Asides, you’ve the party to prepare for, eh?”

She smiled up at him; he smiled back, missing a few teeth but as cheery a face as imagination might paint. “There is no fooling you, is there? You are right; I am going to observe a medical case.”

Cuthbert grew a bit pale. He was a redoubtable fighter — he’d proven that beyond any doubt during last year’s attack by the Kalinago and the French — but was not enamored of doctors, or “chirurgeons,” as he still called them. As he once explained it, it wasn’t the blood or gore that bothered him; it was the “fiddly messing about in one’s flesh” that made him feel like he might lose the lunch he had not yet eaten.

Pale as he might have grown, he straightened up a bit and put back his great, if rather curved, shoulders. “Right, then: to the cutter’s!”

Anne Cathrine managed not to reveal her dismay by putting one fine tooth on one equally fine lip. She had counted on Cuthbert’s aversion to Dr. BrandÃ£o’s infirmary as the means whereby she would shed his constant oversight. So what could she–? Ah! “Mr. Pudsey . . . I . . .”

“Why . . . yes, Lady Anne?” He knew that when she called him Mr. Pudsey, she was about to say something Very Serious Indeed.

“I . . . I must ask a favor of you.”

“Why, fer you, anything. Anything at all!”

“I must ask your discretion.”

He frowned. “My . . . my discretion? In what way, m’um?”

She affected being unable to meet his eyes. “I will require privacy. When we reach the doctor’s.”

“You’ll . . . ?” Then he leaned far back from his concerned forward hunch. “Ah! Now I see it.” He nodded, leaned in, floated a sotto voce question. “A lady’s matter, izzit?”

“It is,” Anne Cathrine answered in a hushed voice, not lying but using her reticence to inveigle him into making some very erroneous assumptions.

He was frowning, however. “Given that the little doctor is the finest I’ve ever seen — though I see as few as I may — I’m surprised that he’s, ah, tending to, er, the fairer sex.”

Anne Cathrine managed not to roll her eyes or punch his beefy shoulder. While she still viewed many of the up-timers’, well, more relaxed relations between the sexes with some reserve, there were two areas in which she was a complete and vociferous convert: the rights of women and the elimination of segregated medical treatment. She found the latter particularly infuriating, and particularly here and now in the New World. Granted, it was rather uncomfortable to be disrobed in front of and examined by a male, but if their expertise was superior, then that was who she wanted administering her care.

Fortunately, she only had to play-act with Cuthbert, not argue for sweeping changes in social attitudes toward the practice of medicine. “I did not say that Dr. BrandÃ£o would be there, just that the matter will be addressed at his infirmary.”

“Ah, well, I should have realized!” Pudsey smote his flat forehead with his equally flat palm. “Apologies for assumin’, m’um.”

“No apology required. However, I will require privacy.”

“Well, of course you will. Where shall I wait for ye?”

“At the western pavilion that has been erected alongside Government House. I should not be very long, but do remain there, even if I am detained.”

Pudsey smiled and frowned at the same time. He was obviously glad to be of service but didn’t want to agree to staying put if her absence was so extended that he became unsure of her safety. “Well, as you say, m’um. And here we are.”

“Keep walking, Pudsey; I do not wish to enter through the front door.”

“Ah. Right, then. No need to feed the gossip-mongers, eh?”

“My thoughts exactly. Now, I shall slip in through the smaller door in the rear, just there. Remember, wait for me at the western pavilion.”

Pudsey frowned, but waved and kept walking toward the canvas wing protruding from one side of Government House where preparations for tonight’s fete were in full swing.

She watched him go, then slipped in the door.

“About time!”

Anne Cathrine started, whirled, fist coming back — and saw Leonora staring wide-eyed at her. She dropped her arm, and managed not to utter several of Eddie’s extremely tepid curses. “Sister, do not startle me so.”

“Who were you expecting? A pirate?”

“I was expecting to be able to see you plainly if you were here before me, not hidden in the shadows.”

“Anne Cathrine,” Leonora said in a voice that would have been quite appropriate in a governess twice her age, “if the objective is for us to remain unobserved, it would be rather foolish of me to arrive here and then stand in the middle of this sunlit room, would it not?”

Anne Catharine silently admitted she had a point but was also silently resolved not to admit it to her fourteen- year-old sister. “Is Sophie here yet?”

“Yes.”

“And is he?”

“No, but it is still early.”

“Then lead on.”

“Me?”

“You got here first, and you know the best hidden vantage point, do you not?”

“Dr. BrandÃ£o keeps the bolt thrown on the doors to both the supply room and the surgery. The latter has an ill-fitting door, made of driftwood. We should be able to see and hear even while leaving it locked.”

“Perfect.” Anne Cathrine waited. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Lead on!”

Leonora did, and Anne Cathrine was fairly sure she was supposed to overhear her annoyed mutter, “Why do I have to do everything?”

They saw the increase in sunlight in the infirmary’s front room, heard faint, polite voices: Sophie’s as she arrived and Dr. BrandÃ£o’s as he left.

Crouched beneath her taller sister so they could both see through the crack between the door and the jamb that had started out as a hatch coaming, Leonora released a long, muffled sigh.

“What now?” Anne Cathrine whispered.

“This is ridiculous,” hissed Leonora.

“It is not,” Anne Cathrine hissed back.

“Either we should enter and be known, or we should leave. I do not understand why you would –“

“Let us just stop at that statement: that you do not understand. We shall remedy that later. But for now, let us watch and listen.”

“But why? If, as you suspect, Sophie’s feelings are greater than she admits, then is it not –?”

“Leonora,” Anne Cathrine muttered sternly, “Sophie Caisdatter Rantzau may be the most intelligent woman I know beside yourself. And she seems equally limited in her understanding of things — things of a personal nature. We are here to observe so that we might help.”

1637NoPeaceBeyondtheLine 20B - Sun Oct 25 9:39:39 EDT 2020

Sun, 25 Oct 2020 09:39:39 -0400

"1637NoPeaceBeyondtheLine 20B last updated Sun Oct 25 9:39:39 EDT 2020

“So our choice was between standing around while the knowledge from Grantville’s library drives a radically new history, or to have a hand in shaping it. And these islands are among the places where those changes will come the fastest and the hardest.”

Joost Banckert’s frown was no longer impatient but somber. “There is much to think about in what you have said, Eddie. But none of it shines a light on how mariners such as us, bred to pursue profit individually and aggressively, can make money when we are all part of one navy with many restrictive rules.”

Eddie smiled. “You really think there’s a short answer to that question?”

Joost’s frown lessened. “I know you cannot show me the whole tapestry of that new reality, Commodore Cantrell, but a quick sketch of the general design would suffice. For now.”

Eddie shrugged, drew in a deep breath. “Okay. So, there will still be profits in taking ships, and there will still be crew shares, just like now. The difference is that the total value will be set by a prize court which will operate under the auspices of . . . “

Eddie Cantrell was, somehow, still standing as the last sliver of the sun sank down toward the almost purple sea. He distinctly remembered hitting the head (such as it was) once, maybe twice. He was pretty sure he’d eaten an extremely crumbly cassava roll with bacon specks baked into it. He remembered watching all the goods get trundled past, either on their way to being sold or out to the wharf and a waiting lighter and thence to a buyer’s ship.

The biggest draw of the day were the down-time manufactured steam engines. To his eye, they were heavy, inefficient, and over-engineered, but on the other hand they were rugged and designed for ease of adaptation to a variety of purposes: for wheels or propellers, for electricity generation, for grinding. The stall right next to that one seemed to specialize in saws of all types, including several which had cranks. And — surprise, surprise! — they just happened that their rotary mechanism was the right size and shape to facilitate easy connection to the steam engines, once the crank was removed. Where the fuel for the engines would come from was another issue. St. Eustatia was not densely wooded, and shipping it from other islands simply to burn it would an expense that would increase as a function of distance from the source. But upon studying the firebox, Eddie discovered that it too was modular insofar as it was clearly designed to be swapped out. He’d thought a moment, wandered over, and asked the self-styled “engineer” peddling the engines if they could be modified to burn bitumen. He had to back away less than thirty seconds, so eager and emphatic was the sales pitch with which the purveyor of engines assaulted him.

Sometime in the late afternoon, various important passengers debarked from the Dutch frigates: the general and former governor of Recife, Diederik van Waerdenburgh, was received with as much ceremony and pomp as van Walbeeck and Tromp could muster. Following soon after, they toasted the arrival of two military commanders who’d distinguished themselves under him: Major Berstedt and the legendary Hermann Gottfried van Stein-Callenfels. It added a bit of official solemnity to complement the last ferocious commercial surges of the day.

Svantner, delivering a list of engineering issues that had been detected on the two new destroyers during their Atlantic crossing, watched as the martial luminaries passed into the fort for a combination inspection/reception that Eddie would soon have to attend. “Why?” he’d asked when the stout doors had closed behind them.

“Why what?”

“Well, you have pointed out that officers in a combat…er, zone, should never cluster together, even if they believe themselves to be in a friendly place. They make too easy and tempting a target. So why have them disembark and arrive as a group?”

Eddie had smiled. “To give the Spanish spies something to look at and get excited about.”

Svantner’s frown deepened. “Is that wise?”

“It is if we want them to believe that, having seen the arrival of those commanders, they’ve seen everything that’s worth seeing.”

Svantner’s mouth made a soundless, “Ah!” He showed enough perspicacity not to inquire after those items or matters from which they were meant to distract Spanish attention.

Actually, of all the new arrivals, Eddie’s main interest had been in the father and son mapmaking duo, Willem and Joan Blaeu, who had been charged to make highly detailed maps of key locations that the up-time charts only showed in broad outlines. But ask as he would, he had not been able to learn their whereabouts.

Shortly after, he’d trudged into the fort, so tired that his Dutch was beginning to fail him as he met and attempted to converse with the new warships’ post-captains, several of whom spoke almost no English. Those two hours felt more like two weeks, and when he finally emerged into the street, it was everything he could do not to limp on his prosthesis. It was far more comfortable than the old one, and much more rugged, but the fact remained that when he was on his feet — well, foot — for an entire day, the amputation site and proximal muscles began aching and spasming. He steadied himself on the wall for a few moments, and then made his way home, resolved not to appear weak in front of his energetic bride who had every reason to expect that he would have been home at least two hours earlier.

Eddie crept up to the bedroom door, leaned his ear against it. No sound. He sighed. On the one hand, even when he was dog-tired, returning to Anne Cathrine was one of the best parts of his day. Even if it was just to collapse into sleep beside her. Seeing her smile, touching her face, smelling her scent were — well, it made his senses and his heart silently affirm, home. Not merely that he had “come home”; she herself was home, to him.

He released another sigh, longer but no less controlled and quiet, and with it he exhaled the tension and non-stop activity of the day. He turned the latch and slipped in.

Anne Cathrine was on the bed. Not in it: on it. Bolt upright. She was on her knees, but Eddie had never seen a less coy or submissive posture in his life. Her eyes were bright. “So. You’ve come home.” Her voice was not reproachful, but it was — tense?

Eddie nodded, rushed to the end of the bed, tried not to limp but failed. He took her two hands in his. “I’m sorry, Cat” — only he used that name for her, and only when they were alone — “but it was exactly the kind of day we expected. I thought you might be asleep, already.” Like the rest of the denizens of the seventeenth century, Eddie had gradually come to live in accord with the sun, rising and setting when it did. Well, mostly: the predawn rising crap was still a pain in the —

Anne Cathrine squeezed his hands gently. She was wearing a nightgown — or robe, or something — that left very, very little to his always-active imagination. “I knew you would be late. I waited.”

Eddie nodded, kept from frowning at her unusual demeanor and almost distracted tone of voice, almost as if she was speaking in her sleep. Which she never did. “Are you okay, love?”

“I am very well. And I am very glad you are home.”

For a moment, Eddie wondered if he should send for Dr. BrandÃ£o. Anne Cathrine speaking in short, simple sentences that declared the obvious? With barely a hint of animation? Was this the onset of some unusual tropical disease?

She slipped her hands out of his, reached up toward him. “I love you, Eddie.”

He smiled, moved in to give her a hug, knowing, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was absolutely the luckiest man in the —

Anne Cathrine grabbed him: hard. Her mouth was on his faster and even harder. She was already breathing like she’d just finished a marathon. All of which he noticed as, with her hands firmly on his shoulders, she twisted sharply at the hip.

Eddie, exhausted and leaning over into what he had expected would be a gentle embrace, fell, her arms guiding and turning him as he did. He landed on his back, too surprised to react, at first.

But Anne Cathrine was not waiting for his response. She turned with his fall, wound up straddling him. He had a fleeting thought that he sure was glad she loved him, because given the expression on her face, her only other possible intent would have been to kill him.

In fact, her hands and arms moved with the speed, force, and focus of an assassin’s. She pushed him down with one hand, grabbed the front of his shirt with the other. She pulled: not merely hard, but savagely. Buttons sprang loose with dramatic snaps and pops, the force of which sent them flying.

They sprayed in all directions, rolling under doors, down between planks, never to be seen again.

1637NoPeaceBeyondtheLine 20A - Sun Oct 25 9:39:38 EDT 2020

Sun, 25 Oct 2020 09:39:38 -0400

"1637NoPeaceBeyondtheLine 20A last updated Sun Oct 25 9:39:38 EDT 2020

Oranjestad, St. Eustatia

Eddie turned, discovered the source of the tongue-in-cheek comments: Joost Banckert. The vice admiral had finally made his way up the dock to them, but the man who’d been walking with him earlier was still on the dock, haggling with a ship’s master over an untapped tun of wine.

“I have a similar reaction to Jan’s ‘careful planning,’ Joost,” Tromp said mildly. “Welcome home.”

“Good to be here,” Banckert replied, glancing over their heads at Oranjestad’s roofs. “Eight weeks and I hardly recognize this place. And barely enough room in the bay to fit my ships back in.”

Van Walbeeck nodded down the dock, toward the man who’d debarked with him. “Did he come aboard your ship or –?”

“No, but he sailed along with us, though. And on the biggest Bermudan sloop I’ve ever seen. When I told them about this market day, everyone in Somers Isles started falling over each other, trying to get their cargos taken on consignment. Fish in Bahamian salt, cedar, pitch, and pork — both smoked and live. Those pigs made an unholy mess and stink when we had to take them below decks during the high weather just past.” He glanced back at his guest. “He’s a good fellow, but shrewd. Hard-nosed. If it wasn’t for that thick accent of his, he could have been a Dutchman.”

“Oh, and where’s he from?”

“Scotland.”

Eddie almost laughed out loud. If any other group was in a position to teach the Dutch about being hard-nosed and shrewd businessmen, it was probably the Scots.

Banckert was studying the Dutch hulls in the anchorage. “So I am wondering why the standards of each ship’s province no longer have the pride of place at the stern. And they’re not flying the Company’s pennant at all. On the other hand, I see more of the ‘national’ colors. A great deal more.” He smiled, but it was not all mirth. “So, are we all sailing under your flag now, eh, Maarten?”

Tromp shook his head slightly. “Never mine. The banner of Hendrik of the Netherlands.”

Banckert smiled. “I see. So has he even bought up the husk of the Companies, then? Has so much changed since I sailed to the Somers Isles?”

Van Walbeeck smiled, but shook his head more vigorously than Tromp had. “You will not bait us with your grinning nonsense, Joost — though it is good to see you, regardless of your so-called sense of humor. In answer: to the best of my knowledge, the Prince of Orange has not changed his position in regard to the Companies. But they are broken, my friend, not just in the Caribbean and the East Indies. Almost all their possessions, at least here in the West Indies — we’ve had no news from the East Indies in quite some time — are in Spanish or native hands, now. So whose flag should we fly? Ours is better than Spain’s, ja?”

Banckert smiled back. “Now, Jan: if I couldn’t bait my colleagues, where would be the joy in this life? In the main I agree with what I’ve heard of the changes. But how do we make profit now, hey? Our way has always been to fight for shares, with our own ships and crews, and full freedom in how we went about our missions. Now, we have become like the Spanish, all saluting one flag, all taking orders from one man.”

Tromp had less patience for the friendly jousting than van Walbeeck. “Joost, you know perfectly well that the Companies always acted with oversight from the government.”

“Some, yes, but they always had a great deal of freedom. They — and we — did better when both the Raad and the Stadtholder watched from afar and interfered infrequently.”

The Bermudan, his negotiations over, had approached as Banckert completed his riposte. Tromp held up a hand to pause the discussion, turned to the newcomer, led the others in that fusion of bow and shallow nod that was the common greeting among those making a first acquaintance. “Sir, do I have the honor of addressing Councilor Patrick Coapland of the Somers Isles?”

The Bermudan returned the gesture, did a fair job at masking surprise. “I am he, but you have me at a disadvantage, sir. How is that you know who I am?”

“Well, there is a radio aboard my ship,” Banckert said with a smile.

“Your ship has one of these devices? And you did not tell me?” Coapland’s aggrieved tone was only half playacting.

Banckert’s smile widened. “You did not ask.”

Van Walbeeck reached out to shake the Bermudan’s hand. “I am Governor van Walbeeck, Councilor Coapland. It is my pleasure to welcome you to Orangestad and to insist that you address me as Jan.” He turned to Banckert. “And as far our arrangements with home are concerned, Joost, well, at an earlier time, that would have made for an interesting debate. But now, the matter is already settled. Prince Hendrik remains the Stadtholder. And, as a wise ruler, he well understands that commerce succeeds most when government intrudes least. But right now, we are at war.”

“With whom?” Banckert shot back. “With the Spanish dandy who now calls himself King in the Lowlands and to whom we have agreed to bow? I presume not.” He smiled wolfishly. “Or has civil war been declared while I was gone?”

Tromp sighed, folded his hands. “Joost, let us put this to rest. The Netherlands is now reunited, but Fredrik Hendrik and the Dutch provinces have full autonomy over their internal affairs. King Fernando controls foreign policy but, just like the Stadtholder, he is given to allow commercial enterprises here in the New World to run themselves as they see fit. So no state of war exists between the Netherlands and Spain. However, this island is far beyond the Tordesillas meridian which Pope Julius II affirmed as the starting point of Spain’s New World dominion. And as Madrid has asserted, there is no peace beyond that line. Ever.

“But whereas ten years ago, our business in the New World was mostly as raiders and opportunistic colonizers, we have become a decided presence, along with allies” — he glanced at Eddie — “who share the enmity of Spain. So yes, there is a war on, here. And there will be for some time. And if we were to remain a loose rabble of raiders, we would surely be swept away.”

“Perhaps that is only because we have become a permanent and growing irritant to the Spanish,” Banckert countered.

Before Eddie could stop himself, he shook his head.

Coapland’s eyes cut in his direction. “You believe differently, sir?” His gaze travelled over Eddie’s clothes, then studied the boot over his prosthetic. “Ah! As I surmised. You are the young up-time admiral, then!” He bowed.

“Merely a commodore,” Eddie corrected.

The Bermudan, whose Scots burr seemed to deepen, smiled. “Come, come. We all know whose ships have brought such changes to the balance of power in the New World, and whose presence has emboldened men such as Admiral Tromp to engage the Spanish head on. And so, have made them the permanent irritant that Admiral Banckert just mentioned.”

Eddie nodded. “Yes, that would be me. But my ships are not what caused the changes in the New World. In point of fact, they are simply the result of changes that were already occurring.”

Coapland cocked his head. “Your words are clear but their meaning is not, I fear.”

Eddie kept himself from looking at Tromp and van Walbeeck; technically, this was about the Dutch, not the USE, and so, not his debate. On the other hand, the conversation was moving into the realm of global implications, so . . . “Councilor Coapland, the changes occurring in the New World are not a product of Grantville’s technology, but its knowledge. Specifically, that which is contained in its library.”

Banckert made to interrupt but Eddie pressed on. “No one in this time foresaw that the New World would be the root cause of the power shifts that would occur during the coming centuries. That’s because they failed to realize that the real wealth was not in gold and silver, but in resources and land.

“But this time, there’s a big difference. In my world, explorers and prospectors first had to find that wealth. That took centuries. But in this world, we have maps that give us a pretty good idea of where all the major mineral deposits are. We know where the fishing is best. Which soils and regions are best for which crops. Which areas are joined by what rivers.”

He swept an arm from the north, through the west, and ending on the south. “Kings and queens didn’t — couldn’t — know how much they should invest in all those unknown places because they didn’t know what they’d ultimately be worth. Well, now they have the answers to both those mysteries. And we’re lucky that the Spanish have been so stuck in their notions of short-term conquest and wealth extraction at gunpoint that they haven’t acted upon that new information yet. But they will. Every nation’s scholars spend days and weeks in our library. If we hadn’t arrived in the middle of what our historians called the Thirty Years’ War, I’m pretty sure there would be a lot more national flags flying from topgallants in this part of the world, by now.

1637NoPeaceBeyondtheLine 19B - Sun Oct 25 9:39:38 EDT 2020

Sun, 25 Oct 2020 09:39:38 -0400

"1637NoPeaceBeyondtheLine 19B last updated Sun Oct 25 9:39:38 EDT 2020

Eddie almost snapped his fingers: the Secret Service! That’s what O’Rourke’s attentive hover looked like. Eddie paused, reflected. Of course, maybe it looks like that because that’s exactly what it is.

But that wasn’t the way bodyguards typically worked in this day and age. They came as a large group, often in formation, and with bright uniforms that sent a clear message to all who saw: “get too close, and you’ll get run through.” But maybe it was different with Hugh. After all, even though he was the last prince of Ireland — a quixotic concept if there had ever been one — he certainly didn’t act like it.

Eddie felt his frown come back. Okay, so Hugh’s demeanor and interactions didn’t resemble those of an heir-apparent to a throne that the English would never let him have. That didn’t make it any less likely that any number of English — or other — leaders might want him dead. And maybe now more than ever.

Hugh had grown up in the down-time equivalent of the English crown’s cross hairs, as had the only other Irish earl, the late John O’Neill. But now that there was only one left, it was probably more tempting than ever to reduce that number to zero, thereby eliminating the only figurehead around which a rebellion might readily coalesce. That was why Hugh had been subtly maneuvered into his New World sojourn by his aunt, the Archduchess Isabella of the Spanish Lowlands: to put distance between her nephew and potential assassins. But that was at best a temporary expedient, which Aodh O’Rourke had apparently realized.

As they reached the head of the dock, Hugh scanned the street leading into the center of Oranjestad. “And there are our new recruits, looking more like lost sheep than men-at-arms.” He turned, smiled. “Maarten, Eddie, I want to thank you for making good on the promise I made to Hyarima. I’d not have made it alone, but lives were in the balance.”

The admiral inclined his head. “It was the right decision, morally and strategically.” Eddie just grinned and nodded.

Smiling, Hugh shook their hands and then made to step away. “After our new boyos have their heads on straight, I’ve a promise to keep: that this mortal wound shall be tended to one more time.” He held up and wiggled his left small finger. What was left of it was well-bandaged.

Van Walbeeck leaned in, concern spiking in his tone. “Is it not healing?”

Hugh laughed. “Quite the contrary; nary a problem, now. Why so concerned, Governor?”

Van Walbeeck was frowning, staring at the mauled pinky as if it might leap free of the earl’s hand and begin attacking them. “My first employ was with the Dutch East India Company. In those jungles, an almost-mended wound may yet fester and take not just a limb, but a life.”

Hugh nodded. “I appreciate your concern, but no open flesh remains. The scar tissue is complete and no longer tender.”

Van Walbeeck’s frown changed to one of mere puzzlement. “Then I find it hard to understand why Dr. BrandÃ£o, would wish you to return.”

Hugh chuckled. “Oh, it is not Dr. BrandÃ£o that I must see. It did not warrant his expertise. I am under the care of one of his volunteers.”

Van Walbeeck’s frown was replaced by a round-mouthed, “Ohhh. Yes. I see now.” As the earl nodded his farewell and turned to leave, Jan sent an assurance after him: “I’m sure you are in excellent hands.” If Hugh heard van Walbeeck’s shift to a mischievous drawl, he gave no sign of it. After a moment, Van Walbeeck and Jol exchanged winks and grins. Tromp sighed but couldn’t hold back a small smile when Peg-Leg added, “I am told that Lady Sophie Rantzau was his dedicated nurse. Excellent hands, indeed!”

Eddie stared at the three of them. For one bizarre moment, he felt like he was eight again, watching the old ladies who sat around after Sunday service, furtively inspecting the “young people” and scheming to make matches between their preferred pairings. Which they never did.

And damn it if the three redoubtable Dutch sea captains weren’t standing at the intersection of the dock and the main street, staring about them with the same insufferably self-satisfied smiles on their faces. But maybe, Eddie relented, there was cause for that. Spirits were high and competition over merely speaking to a young woman no longer threatened to devolve into rutting combats that he mostly associated with National Geographic documentaries. Between the young ladies who’d come by boat from St. Christopher’s and the mass of colonists which had arrived with the convoy, the ratio was no longer dangerously lopsided.

“Would you say that the timing of tomorrow night’s dance was also another stroke of extraordinary ‘luck?'” Van Walbeeck asked over Eddie’s shoulder. “Look at them, men and women alike, running their fingers over those fine fabrics. The best Seville had to offer. All ‘diverted’ here at the most propitious moment!” Eddie managed not to roll his eyes. “Why,” concluded van Walbeeck, “it’s as if someone had planned it all!”

Tromp sighed. “Careful, Jan. You might break your arm, trying to pat yourself on the back.” Jol chuckled.

Van Walbeeck effected umbrage. “Laugh if you must, but ask yourselves: why is this glorious bedlam occurring now? Ships have been off-loading for a week.” He shook his finger at them. “Because the colony’s government prohibited open sales until this day. To ensure a fair opportunity for all potential customers to inspect all the goods, all at once. And so, all the merchants would have equal access to the equally full purses of their clientele.” He had to pause his self-praise for a moment; musicians strolled past, lutes, recorders, and mandolas weaving melodies and harmonies together like closely stitched seams that parted again.

“So, he resumed, “with buyers and sellers all champing at the bit, we have maximum bartering” — he gestured outward with both arms — “which drives up the amount of trade, which drive up tariffs on the sales. However, steps were taken to offset that bite from everyone’s purse.”

Eddie nodded, frowning: he’d been too busy with strategic and technology matters to follow the market arrangements. “That’s why you waived customs and port taxes for this week: that way, anyone selling is only paying what we used to call sales tax. Which they must declare as such to their customers.”

Jol frowned. “All very well, but then what keeps the vendors from increasing the sales tax and gouging the customers?”

“Nothing,” replied van Walbeeck with a beatific smile.

“But then how can these people afford those prices?”

“Because we, the government of St. Eustatia are paying their sales taxes for them, this week.”

Eddie felt like the lobes of his brain had just hit each other in a high-speed collision. “Wait. But that’s a loop. You would have received the taxes from the people. But now you’re paying it for them. To yourselves? So . . . are you writing it off?”

“Not at all, because it is not quite a loop, my innocent young friend. You see, we are repaying ourselves . . . from the most useful items taken from La Flota.”

Jol sputtered before he could get out any words. “And you call me cunning and a pirate! So while you’ve used one hand to wave away the taxes and make everybody happy, you’ve used the other to dip into all the gold, silver, gems, and coin from La Flota to ‘repay’ the government for the taxes it agreed to pay for the purchases made this week.”

Walbeeck grinned. “As I said, it is as if someone had been planning it all from the beginning.”

“Planning what from the beginning?” The new voice from behind sounded suspicious. “When van Walbeeck is muttering about careful planning, I clap my hand over my purse.”