Second Starts
May 1632 to July 1633
Grantville, May 2, 1632
“Race time ten minutes,” blared the speaker. The murmur of the fairground crowd rose in volume, then subsided.
“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” Maria Vorst said. Maria had come to Grantville with her brother Adolph, the curator of the Leiden Botanical Gardens, and a member of the faculty of medicine of Leiden University. They had visited Grantville’s greenhouses, and Adolph had met with Dr. Nichols and Dr. Adams. Adolph had returned to Leiden; he had classes to teach and meetings to attend. Maria had stayed in Grantville to study botany and gardening.
Her partner, Lolly Aossey, waved to some of her middle school students. Lolly was their science teacher. She was also a girl scout leader and a gardener. Maria was boarding with her.
“Good luck, Ms. Aossey!” they chorused.
“Thanks, kids!” Lolly turned to Maria. “Don’t worry, Buffalo Creek is about as gentle a river as you are going to find anywhere.”
“There’s that drop,” said Maria doubtfully.
“Oh, that? Two feet, maybe three. Now, if we were running Schwarza Falls, upriver, you’d get some real action.”
“Buffalo Creek is more than enough for me, today.”
“One day I’ll teach you whitewater kayaking. Then you’ll look forward to a drop taller than you are.” Lolly taught canoeing, climbing and other wilderness skills at the Girl Scouts’ outdoor adventure camp each summer.
Someone bugled the traditional horse-racing “first call.” Lolly and Maria stood on either side of the middle of their canoe.
“Welcome, folks, to the fifth running of the Great Buffalo Canoe Race. Sorry we missed last year, but we didn’t expect to enter a time warp.
“Contestants, line up according to your entry number. The first team will start at the sound of the starting gun. After that, the teams will enter the water at one-minute intervals. Sorry you can’t all start at once, but the creek’s a wee bit too narrow for that. We will call you by number.
“Each team must start on the bank, at the starting line. Getting your canoe into the water, and yourselves into the canoe, is part of the fun.
“When you come to a drop, you can portage, but you must carry the boat and get back on board without outside assistance.
“Friends, don’t forget that one of our sponsors is Thuringen Gardens. Show them you appreciate their support of this event by drinking lots of beer! Of course, if you’re a contestant, you might want to wait until after the race. And if you’re underage, forget I said anything.
“Okay, all rise for ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’” The middle school chorus sang the anthem. The ceremonial marshal, standing on the footbridge, waved his staff.
That was the announcer’s cue. “Team One, on your mark, get set . . .” The starter fired his gun. “Go!” The Baker twins, Billy Joe and Jim Bob, grabbed the gunwales of their canoe and ran with it to the bank. One jumped down, painter in hand, and started pulling, while the other went to the stern and pushed. The canoe lurched down the bank, and the canoeists slid it into the water.
“Team Two!” The second pair, Walt Jenkins and his apprentice barber, the down-timer Erhard Matz, headed to the water. The Germans in the audience cheered.
“Team Three! Hey, it’s a brother-and-sister team, Phil and Laurel Jenkins. Try not to kill each other.”
“Team Four!” That was the cue for Phil’s friends, Larry and Gary Rose. They were carrying a garishly painted Chestnut Prospector.
“Team Five!” That was Lewis and Marina Bartolli. Their parents owned Bartolli’s Surplus and Outdoor Supplies, so they had a real racing hull, an eighteen-foot-long, three-by-twenty-seven pro boat. “Buy Bartolli’s” was painted on both sides.
“Ouch,” said Lolly.
Maria flinched. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, look at that canoe. The longer the boat, the faster it can go in the water.”
“Ouch, indeed.”
“On the other hand, it’s a pain in the butt to carry, it turns slowly, and I have my doubts as to how well it will do in whitewater.”
“Team Six!” Phil Gerard and “Ikey” Pridmore were upholding the honor of Grantville Sporting Goods, the Bartollis’ main competitor. They, too, had a USCA competition cruiser. “Go, Grantville Sporting Goods!” they shouted in unison, and picked up their canoe.
More teams followed. Finally, it was Lolly and Maria’s turn. They walked a bit farther than the others, in order to go down to the river where the going was easier. The time they lost up on the bank was regained when they descended rapidly and safely to the water. Lolly held their canoe, a fourteen-foot Mad River Synergy, pointing upstream, and Maria swung herself into the bow position. Then Lolly jumped into the stern, and they came about and edged their way into the main current.
Seeing all the other canoes in the river ahead of them was discouraging, but they knew that contestants’ actual running times would determine their placement.
“Buffalo Creek’s a bit woollier than it used to be,” Lolly remarked. “Faster and deeper. The water from the Upper Schwarza tumbles a few hundred feet down the southwest ring wall, rushes into the Spring Branch and then into the Creek. Which is a real river, nowadays.”
A couple of strokes later, Maria did a double-take. “Wait a moment, you said it was gentle.”
“A gentle river. Just not a creek anymore.”
Walt and Erhard’s canoe entered the Hough Park loop, staying on the inside.
“Bad choice,” said Lolly. “That may shorten the distance, but the current is strongest on the outside of a curve.” The wind carried her voice forward. Maria nodded.
“But you don’t want to get too close to the outer bank. That’s where the erosion is greatest, and so you tend to get fallen trees there. We call ’em strainers, ’cause they let water through but trap boaters.”
The canoes passed under the Hough Street bridge. Its pilings acted a bit like a “rock garden” on a wild river, creating little eddies. But they were easily avoided.
A few minutes later, the contestants were approaching the mouth of Dent’s Fork, on river left.
“Be careful here, Maria. If you look closely, you’ll see the shear line, where the waters merge. Stay away from it.”
The pack swept past Dent’s Fork, and under the Clarksburg Street bridge. The bridge was packed with spectators. Maria couldn’t help but wonder whether some poor soul would fall off and have to be rescued.
High Street Bridge. Lolly and Maria were fourth from the lead, at this point. Pretty good, considering that they had started last. Phil and Laurel Jenkins were in the boat ahead of them.
A ninety-degree turn. Now they were heading east-southeast. This was a long straightaway, and it gave a bit of an edge to the longer canoes.
Route 11 Bridge. More onlookers. Another ninety-degree turn, bringing them into a nearly southerly course.
High up on the bank, they saw the sign, LEAVING GRANTVILLE.
Some minutes later, they were approaching Rainbow Plaza. The crowd assembled there yelled encouragement (and an occasional jeer).
The high school was the next major landmark, and it signaled that they were approaching the wilder part of the river.
Now came the Drop. This was a broad ledge, two feet high, extending the full width of the river. A large crowd stood nearby, on the low bank. It was a popular vantage point, since the spectators got to see how the contestants would handle the drop.
Walt and Erhard took the easy way out. They ferried over to the side, where the current was weakest. They clambered out, holding their canoe in place, and then walked it over the Drop.
Phil and Laurel paddled up close to the ledge, then set their paddles down, grabbed both bulwarks tightly, and braced themselves. The water carried them to the brink, where they teetered and then crashed into the foam below, with a teeth-jarring crash. But they were upright, and more or less dry, at least.
Billy Joe and Jim Bob tried to copy this move, but with both hands raised in the air, like thrill seekers on a roller coaster. That wasn’t a good idea. Their boat rolled to port, and without paddles, there wasn’t much they could do to stop it. In a moment, they were taking a swim.
“Count the fish!” a spectator yelled. They righted their canoe and pulled themselves back in. With grim expressions, they resumed paddling downstream.
Lolly and Maria’s canoe neared the Drop. As it did so, they increased the power of their strokes, accelerating. As her toes came even with the lip of the drop, Maria planted her paddle where the green water met the white, like an Olympic pole vaulter preparing to jump. She pulled back on the paddle, bringing it past her hips. Lolly’s paddle struck the water at the same time and grabbed more water, adding to their forward momentum.
Their canoe went airborne, traveling several feet, over the boil where the waters fell, before pancaking in the quiet water farther downstream.
Phil Jenkins had turned his head back a moment earlier to see what was happening behind him, and had watched the whole boof. “Wow,” said Phil. “Who’s the pretty girl with Miz Aossey?” Maria was blond and blue-eyed, which was very definitely Phil’s “type.”
He had also stopped paddling, and the boat had veered a bit. “Keep your mind on your oarwork,” Laurel snapped.
Larry and Gary Rose, battling to catch up with Lolly and Maria, were also impressed. “How are we going to top that?” said Larry. “It’s not like we’re going to win the race, so we have to find some way to impress the girls.”
“I dunno. Maybe we can strike a pose?” Gary said sarcastically. “How about we just finish the race?”
“Great idea! Let’s strike a pose,” Larry said, ignoring his brother’s obvious dismay. “The girls will love it. When we’re almost at the Drop, back paddle to hold us there. This’ll be spectacular.”
It was. Although not perhaps the way Larry had in mind.
Gary held the boat against the current, so it jutted out over the Drop. Larry, in the front seat, set his paddle down, and shook his fists in the air. The crowd roared appropriately.
“Bring us back a little, Gary,” Larry ordered. “Now lean back, and keep paddling.” Gary groaned, but complied. Larry slowly rose up from his seat, extending his arms for balance. The boat trembled as Gary fought the rush of the water. Larry was standing now, and brought his hands together, like a prizefighter after a K.O.
“Can we go yet?” said Gary, through gritted teeth.
“A moment more. I can see someone adjusting a camera.”
An inquisitive wasp buzzed Gary’s head, and he lost control as he tried to keep an eye on it. With a great lurch, the boat toppled. It first penciled down, throwing Larry into the water, and then its butt dropped with a great thud. Since the falling water had carved a deeper hole at the base of the ledge, this in turn caused the prow to seesaw upward. At some point, Gary also lost his seating, and joined his partner in the drink. The boat bobbed downstream as the Rose boys scrambled, sputtering droplets, out of their little bubble bath.
“So, did we impress the girls yet?” asked Gary.
* * *
“That was fun!” said Maria. “I’m glad we did those practice runs, though. I would hate to mess up in front of a crowd like this.”
“Practice makes perfect,” Lolly acknowledged.
“So what’s the next step?”
“In whitewater rafting? You need to learn to handle a kayak. Start on flatwater, then try the lower Schwarza when the powerplant discharges coolant water. Once you have enough experience, you can tackle Schwarza Falls, upriver. Or at least the little falls below it.”
“Little falls?”
“Where the Schwarza flows over fallen chunks of the ring wall.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Grantville, Summer 1632
“So you’re the plant ladies.”
“That’s what people call us,” Irma Lawler acknowledged. She studied Maria. “You’re the Dutch gal who’s boarding with Miriam’s daughter?”
“That’s right.”
“Edna and I know Miriam from the Garden Club. So you want to buy a few seeds?”
“A lot, actually.” Maria took a deep breath. “Probably some of every variety you have, if that’s possible.”
Irma looked at Edna, then back at Maria. “Well, now. That sounds like a lot of business, and we can use the money. But some of the varieties are getting a bit scarce. We give them to you before we grow any more, and other people will have to go without. For a long time; it’s not like we can just order more out of a catalog.”
“Why do you want so many seeds, girl?” asked Edna.
“It is for the Hortus Botanicus, in Leiden. It’s the botanical garden of the University of Leiden; my brother Adolph is in charge. As was our father before him. The medical students use the garden to learn the herbs used in medicine, and scholars come from all over Europe to study its many botanical curiosities. Those are exotic plants, sent to us by the Dutch East India Company, or by other gardens.”
“And you send plants to the other gardens, too?”
“Yes, we trade.”
“Well, why don’t we compare inventories? We’d like to expand our own collection.”
* * *
Maria saw her friend Prudentia Gentileschi leaving the Nobili house, and waved. Prudentia was the daughter of the world-famous artist Artemisia Gentileschi, an up-and-coming artist in her own right, and a part-time assistant in the middle school and high school art classes.
“Prudentia!” Maria crossed the street and joined her. “On your way to class?” Prudentia nodded.
“I’ll walk you there, if you don’t mind. Shall we take the scenic route?”
They walked a bit, in companionable silence, then Prudentia spoke up. “So what’s new, Maria?”
“I got a letter from my brother.”
“You don’t sound happy about it. Is there bad news?”
Maria sighed. “Nothing like that. He’s fine, his wife Catarina is fine . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“It’s just that he’s so lazy. So smug. So uncomprehending of all his advantages, denied to those of our sex. So—”
“So male.”
“A decade ago, he and cousin Gijsbert got to go on a grand tour, see England, France, and Italy. Whereas I thought myself lucky to visit Amsterdam, or Delft. And, in Italy, they studied at the famous University of Padua. While I made do with academy classes and language tutors. And puttered about in the garden with Papa, of course.”
Maria shook her head. “Adolph came home in 1623, and, the next year, he was appointed professor extraordinary of medicine, with a salary of six hundred guilders a year. In 1625, when Father died, he became curator of the Hortus Botanicus. Did he continue to recruit departing ship captains to bring home exotic plants, as Papa did? No, he was content to administer potions to rich merchants, and flirt with their daughters.”
“Catarina was the last of those daughters, I hope.”
Maria nodded. “Then the curators of Leiden University told him he needed to . . . what is the American term? ‘Publish or Perish.’ So he produced a catalog of the plants in the garden.”
“That’s the one you illustrated, is it not?”
“Yes. Elzevier will be publishing it. Next year, I hope. Anyway, that was his big chance to honor our father’s work. But Adolph did the minimum work possible, contenting himself with the garden inventory. I prepared the list of 289 wild plants. Limited to the vicinity of Leiden, of course, because I didn’t get to travel to anyplace exotic, unlike Adolph.”
Prudentia gave Maria a quick hug. “None of what you have told me would have seemed at all surprising before we came to Grantville,”
“That’s true.”
“So what’s in the letter?”
“Complaints. The students are complaining that he doesn’t spend enough time with them, don’t they realize he is a busy man? Catarina has extravagant tastes, doesn’t she realize he is just a scholar, not a wealthy merchant like her father? Why am I lingering in Grantville, when I should be home in Leiden, seeing to the cataloging and description of all the seeds I have sent him? And planting them. The gardener quit and so he must do it himself.”
“Poor baby.”
Grantville, Fall 1632
Maria was standing in front of an easel, a canvas in front of her. On it was a half-finished rendition of one of the “Painted Ladies” of Grantville. This one had a covered porch, a turret, and an attic with a rayed window. It was colored blue and green, and a tall sugar maple, the official tree of West Virginia, stood beside it. At least in Maria’s painting. Maria had exercised artistic license and moved the tree to stand beside her favorite Victorian. The tree itself was a brilliant mass of scarlet, its leaves having already turned.
“Hi, Maria. What are you drawing?”
“This is—” Her voice faltered. Looking up, she realized that she didn’t recognize the woman addressing her. She was an elderly up-timer, dressed conservatively, but without any concessions to down-time practice.
“You don’t know me, but I am one of Lolly’s colleagues, Elva Dreeson. I teach art at the middle school.” She offered her hand; Maria took it.
Maria smiled apologetically. “I am sorry, she introduced me to so many people, so quickly, when I first came to stay with her.”
“Actually, you didn’t meet me at that time. I heard about your visit, but I was out sick that day. Another of our colleagues pointed you out to me, when you and Lolly were out paddling in the Great Buffalo Canoe Race. And when I heard that you were an artist, I resolved to look you up. So here I am. Belatedly.”
“Well, I’m not really an artist.”
“Oh? That looks like art to me.” She pointed at Maria’s canvas.
“I mean, I’m not a professional artist. For a woman to be a master in the painters’ guild, she pretty much has to be born to it. Like Artemisia Gentileschi. Or Giovanna Garzoni.”
“And you weren’t?”
“Why, no. My late father, Aelius Everhardus Vorstius, was a great scholar. At the University of Leiden, he was Professor Extaordinarius in Natural Philosophy, Professor of Medicine, and Curator of the Botanical Gardens.”
“So how did you learn to paint?”
“I attended an academy. They cater to amateurs, especially high-born women who see it as an elegant pastime, like playing the harpsichord.”
“And is that how you see it, as a hobby?”
“While I find it relaxing, it isn’t just a hobby. When I was young, it was a way to help my father. I could draw specimens that had been loaned to us for study. And my brother, who is the present curator, has written a Catalogus plantarum, a description of our entire collection, and I illustrated it.”
“You know, I have a book you might like to read. It’s about women artists throughout history.”
“That sounds fascinating. But I don’t know when I am going to find the time. I need to finish my paintings of the West Virginia trees before they all lose their leaves. I have to complete my thirty hours of volunteer work to get my Master Gardener’s certificate. And I have so much homework for Lori Fleming’s biology class. And the geology class Lolly roped me into.”
“Tell you what. I’ll give it to Lolly just before winter break. You’ll have some time to spare then.”
* * *
Maria bent down to study a wildflower by the side of Route 250, near the high school. Phil Jenkins came up behind her, and watched her for a few moments. Finally, he coughed. “I hear you’ve been looking at people’s houseplants.”
She looked up, and gave him a smile. “Yes, that’s right. I am making drawings of them, and sending seeds and cuttings to Adolph.”
“Who’s Adolph?” he asked sharply.
“My brother.”
“Oh. . . . You know, lots of people here in Grantville have houseplants, but I am something of a specialist.”
“How so?”
“I grow trees.”
“Your house must have very high ceilings.”
Phil laughed. “No, that’s not necessary. Although it would be nice. The trees just don’t grow as tall as they would in the wild.”
“So what trees do you grow? Sugar maple? Sassafras? Pitch pine?”
“Hmm, you’ve been studying West Virginia trees. But there isn’t much point in growing those indoors. I mostly grow tropical trees. Would you like to see them?”
Maria considered the invitation. He was so much younger than she was, he couldn’t possibly be courting her, but still, what would people think?
“May I bring a girlfriend?”
* * *
Maria and Prudentia arrived at the Jenkins house the next day, arm in arm.
Laurel Jenkins opened the door. “Oh, I recognize you,” she said. “You were the star of the canoe race in May.”
“You are kind to say so. We are here to see your ‘house trees.’”
Laurel turned and yelled upstairs. “Phil, turn off your stupid CD! You have company.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Brothers.”
* * *
“Hi, Maria! Hi, Prudentia. You came at a good time, my Angel’s Trumpet’s in bloom. Come along, I’ll show you. There, you can see how it gets its name.”
Maria admired the plant. The gracefully arching branches were festooned with long white trumpet-shaped flowers. “What lovely curves.”
“That’s from Brazil. Now, can you guess what this is?” The plant had nondescript green leaves, perhaps six inches long, and many flowers, each a five-pointed white star. There were also a few green cherries. The girls shook their heads. Maria actually recognized the tree—the Leiden Botanical Garden had gotten one from Aden years ago—but Phil was so obviously proud of his specimen that she didn’t have the heart to say so.
“This is Coffea arabica—the coffee tree. From Ethiopia, originally.”
Prudentia pointed to one of the cherries. “I have seen coffee beans here in Grantville. This doesn’t look like one.”
“It isn’t. There are two beans, seeds really, inside each cherry. You wait until the cherries turn red—that means they’re ripe—and then you take out the beans, and roast them.”
“So, do you supply coffee to Grantville?” asked Maria.
“I wish. You can’t get a lot of coffee beans out of one tree, I don’t have room for a whole bunch of trees, and it’s too cold in Thuringia to grow them outside. The coffee comes from the Turks. When they feel like selling it to us.”
“I don’t care for the taste myself,” said Maria. “Too bitter.”
“Okay, here’s another tree. Any guesses?”
Maria looked it over closely. “Some kind of fig?”
“Yep.” He favored her with a big smile. “This is Ficus elastica, the Indian Rubber Tree. East Indian, that is. Cut it, and it bleeds a sap, latex, that hardens into a kind of rubber.”
Maria fingered the stem. “So that is where you Americans get the rubber you use in your tires?”
“Uh, uh. Some of that’s made from the latex of a different rubber tree, Hevea brasiliensis, and the rest is synthesized from chemicals. But if you want to know more about that, you’ll have to check the encyclopedias.”
“Perhaps I will.”
Fort Zwaanandael (modern Lewes, Delaware), Early December, 1632
Bones. They gleamed in the winter sunlight, amid the white sparkling sand, and the chill that Captain David Pieterszoon de Vries felt was not entirely due to the coldness of the air. Here was a femur, there, a skull. David reached down and picked up an arrowhead. It was easy enough to visualize how this particular colonist had met his Maker. David didn’t know if he had been fleeing, or had bravely faced his attacker. Certainly, he had not escaped from this beach to the dubious haven of the waters of the Zuidt River Bay.
The dismal find had not been a surprise. In May, the Kamer Amsterdam of the West India Company had heard, from its agents in Nieuw Amsterdam, that the Zwaanandael settlement had been wiped out, save for one survivor. David had been about to leave, with two ships, to go a-privateering in the Caribbean. Since the easiest return route to Europe was to go partway up the American coast before heading east, he logically had planned to stop at Zwaanandael along the way. Sell them European manufactures in return for tobacco, grain, and fresh meat. And perhaps do a bit of whaling as well.
The news of the massacre, of course, had been devastating to David and his fellow patroons. And surprising, because the Lenape had been friendly the previous year. But David had hoped that either the ill tidings would prove to have been exaggerated, or that the breach with the natives could somehow be remedied. At the least, that he could trade for furs.
Briefly, David had toyed with the idea of making a quick trip to Grantville, the mysterious town from the future, to see if its fabulous library could tell him whether Zwaanandael had indeed survived. But he couldn’t afford the time; it would have delayed him enough so that he would have been sailing in the Caribbean at the height of the hurricane season.
David’s longboat was beached just behind him. One sailor had stayed behind, to guard the boat and man its swivel gun. The small cannon was loaded with grapeshot. The yacht Eikhoorn stood just offshore, ready to lay down covering fire if need be. David’s own ship, the Walvis, was anchored in deeper water, closer to Cape Hinlopen. It was a four-hundred-ton fluyt, with eighteen cannon, which likewise were in range.
Still, David couldn’t help but feel a little anxious about how exposed he and his landing party were. The dark forest could conceal ten Indians, or a thousand.
The sailors spread out in a ragged line abreast. Ahead of them was Fort Zwaanandael.
David’s cousin, Heyndrick de Liefde, put his hand on David’s shoulder. “Where are the walls of stone? The moat and drawbridge? The portcullis?” He had been shown the settlement plans.
“Just what I was wondering,” David replied. “Especially since we went to such expense to provide them with everything they needed. And I checked the equipment myself, before it was loaded onto the Walvis.”
Instead of a granite wall, the settlement had merely a palisade. There was no portcullis, just a wooden gate, now hanging askew from a single hinge. The only part of the fort which was more or less as David expected was the great brick blockhouse, the warehouse and strong point of the colony. Although it was ash-black now.
“They should have given me command of the Walvis back then, not that idiot Heyes.”
Heyndrick nodded. “Even back home in Rotterdam, people were talking about him. He sent the Salm ahead, and lost it?” The Salm was a yacht, like the Eikhoorn, used for inshore work.
“That’s right. Taken by a Dunkirker, with all our harpooners, and their equipment. And he brought the Walvis back, nine months later, without a cargo.” That was sacrilege, to a Dutch merchant. “We lost a mint.”
Despite Heyes’ blundering, David and his fellow investors had been confident that the colonists could grow wheat, tobacco and cotton, and hunt the whales that frequented the bay from December to March. Now that seemed a forlorn hope indeed.
David poked around in the debris at the foot of the gate, and found the bones of a large dog. A spiked collar and several more arrowheads lay nearby. David detailed two men to stand guard at the gate, and the rest of his party followed David inside.
All was chaos, both inside the blockhouse and without. The fort, quite clearly, had been looted. All that was left were the items that the savages had no use for. And the skeletons. David had hoped to find a diary, which might reveal the reasons for the attack. If one had once existed, it had burned, along with the furnishings, when the invaders had overturned lamps in their pursuit of the settlers inside. Or in their haste to find loot.
They then checked the fields. There was no sign, there, of any organized resistance. The skeletons of the Dutchmen and their livestock were scattered over the weed-infested fields. If they had been carrying arms, these were now in the hands of the Indians. The Lenape, David assumed, although it was possible that some other tribe, perhaps the Minquas, had been the enemy.
By now the sun was low in the horizon. This was no time to linger in hostile territory. “Back to the ship,” David ordered. David and his search party returned to the longboat, and rowed over to the Eikhoorn.
Jan Tiepkeszoon Schellinger, the yacht’s captain, greeted him. “What news?”
“The colony of Zwaanandael was wiped out, as we were told.” Some thirty men had sought a new life at Zwaanendael, David mused, where there was land for the taking. And their lives, all save one, had been taken instead. He wondered why this had been God’s will.
“Now what?” Jan asked. David was the squadron commander.
“Captain Schellinger, please fire one cannon. Just powder, no shot. I am returning to the Walvis for the night.”
“Yes, sir.”
Heyndrick looked at David quizzically.
“I am telling the Indians that I would like to negotiate,” David explained.
“Negotiate? With those savages? After they massacred our people?”
“We will hear what they have to say. After that, there will be time enough to take vengeance, if that is called for. Trouble is . . .” David bit his lip.
“Yes?”
“I knew Gilles Hosset, God rest his soul. I don’t like to speak ill of any man, but never was there a man less suited for command. Slow of thought and quick to anger.”
* * *
The next morning, David was awakened early.
“Captain, the lookout saw a column of smoke. From the pine woods outside Zwaanandael.”
“I’ll be right up.”
David checked his pistols and cutlass, and came out onto the main deck. He pulled out a spyglass, a Dutch invention. “I don’t see anyone in the open. Still, we accomplish nothing by sitting here. Mr. Vogel, on the double, please!” Vogel had been the interpreter on the Walvis’ last trip to Zwaanandael.
“First mate, detail seven men to join us in the longboat. All fully armed, muskets and cutlasses, if you please. Heyndrick, kindly bring your shotgun. Come along, Vogel.”
Some minutes later, they were past the breakers, in water they could wade in. David had decided not to land until he had seen the reception committee. They waited, sure that they were under observation, but saw nothing but the lapping of the waves on the beach, the wheeling of the birds in the sky, and the caress of the wind on the branches of the woods beyond.
The gulls cried overhead, like lost souls, and still the Dutchmen waited for the Indians to reveal themselves. David pointed out a particularly large bird to his cousin. “Heyndrick, bring that fowl down.” Heyndrick, readied his shotgun, and waited for the gull to fly near. He fired, and the hapless bird fell to the beach below. The crewmen cheered, and an answering cry came from some riverside weeds.
The Indians rose, with broken stalks littering their long hair. They waved their arms, and shouted something. The sailors gripped their weapons with white-knuckled hands.
“What are they saying?” David asked Vogel.
Vogel grinned. “They applaud our Heyndrick’s prowess as a hunter.” At this, the boat party gave its own cheer, and relaxed a bit.
David held up his hand to quiet them. “Tell the Indians to come down to the beach.”
Vogel cupped his hands, and shouted this invitation. The Indians conversed among themselves, and then answered. “They say to come ashore.”
“Hah! It will be a fine day in Hell before I do that. Tell them the tide is too low now, we will visit them at high tide tomorrow morning.”
* * *
At dawn, David transferred to the Eikhoorn, and had it sail close to the fort, into waters a fathom or two deep. He had Vogel urge the Indians to come to him. “Tell them we have a fine present for one who comes to us.”
One fidgeted, and then walked slowly toward them, hands open. He stood on the strand for a moment, watching them. Then he swam out, coming alongside. “I am Temakwei—the Beaver. Because I am a good swimmer. What do you have for me?”
The crew threw down a rope to him, and he climbed up. David handed him a blouse and breeches. Temakwei held each up, and compared it to what David and his shipmates were wearing. At last he laughed, and pulled them on.
David held up a bottle. “Perhaps you’d care for some schnapps?”
* * *
“So Temakwei, why did your people slay mine?”
“Your sakima Hosset put a metal shield on the gate of your village. It was small, but very beautiful. It showed a great golden panther with the sky behind it. It walked on two feet like a man, and carried a white knife in one paw, and seven white arrows in another.”
“He means a lion, not a panther. And a sword, not a knife,” said Heyndrick. David shushed him.
“One of our chiefs, Taminy, thought that it was a great waste that this pretty thing sit on a gate. So he borrowed it to make a tobacco pipe, so we could smoke it together and honor the peace between our people.”
Heyndrick reinterpreted this statement. “Stole it, he means.”
David sighed. “The Indians don’t have much of a property concept. Stealing isn’t a crime, so far as they’re concerned. It is a chance to demonstrate that they are cleverer than you. If you don’t like it, steal it back.”
“Your Hosset said many bad words to us. He told us we had taken a . . . I don’t know the words.”
“Coat of arms?”
“That sounds right. A ‘Koh-Tah-Ahms’ of the Dutch people. He told us that this was a terrible insult to your chief of chiefs, and to your Manitou, your great spirit. That the thief must be punished.
“That was when we realized that we had committed a great wrong. Clearly, the ‘Koh-Tah-Ahms’ was strong medicine. To take it away was to hurt the Dutch people, our friends.
“So, the next day, we brought the head of Taminy to your Hosset.”
Heyndrick’s eyes widened. He started to speak, but David raised a finger in admonition, and Heyndrick subsided.
“Your chief told us that he didn’t mean for us to kill Taminy, only to make him bring back the spirit-shield and apologize. Still, he was pleased that we had punished Taminy, and he sent us home with pleasant words. But the brothers and sons of Taminy were angry that Taminy was dead. And the sister-sons of Taminy were angry, too. They waited and waited, but Hosset did not send them any wampum to atone for the death of Taminy.
“It was an insult not only to Taminy’s kin, but to his entire clan.”
“And then what?”
Temakwei fidgeted. “They did what they must. They wiped out the dishonor in blood.”
* * *
David and Heyndrick watched Temakwei jump off the Eikhoorn, and swim back to shore. They couldn’t see any other Indians, but they knew there had to be some there.
“So much blood spilled, over a stupid piece of tin,” David said. “I hesitate to waste more.”
Heyndrick protested. “But surely you can’t let the Indians think that they can get away with pillaging our colonies.”
“That’s true. But we could go on playing tit-for-tat indefinitely. Like Italian families with a vendetta. And we aren’t going to make a profit that way.
“So we need to be conciliatory, but at the same time, show we are strong. Temakwei is carrying our message to the chiefs. When they come, we will give them a demonstration of the power of our cannon, it will seem pretty strong magic to them, I think. Then we will offer them presents, propose a peace pact, and pass around the pipe.”
Heyndrick looked skeptical. “You think that will solve everything?”
“No. We must forgive, but not forget. We must be friendly, but always on guard. They will trade with the strong, but prey upon the weak.
“In which regard, to be blunt, they aren’t very different from us.”
Grantville, Winter Break, 1632
Maria had actually welcomed the coming of winter. It gave her the chance to catch up on her pleasure reading. In particular, she was finally able to tackle Elva’s book on woman artists.
Her friend Prudentia’s mother, Artemisia, was in it, of course. And Maria was pleased to see that the book mentioned the work of Clara Peeters, a Flemish still-life specialist, and Judith Leyster, the portraitist and genre painter from Haarlem.
But what truly caught Maria’s attention was the description of two other artists. One was Rachel Ruysch of Amsterdam. Her father was Anthony Frederick Ruysch, a professor of anatomy and botany. Much like Maria’s father. And apparently, he passed on some of his scientific knowledge to her, because the book said, “Ruysch brought a thorough knowledge of botany and zoology to her work.”
Maria also thought much about Maria Sibylla Merian. She had come to art by the more usual path, being the daughter of an engraver and the step-daughter of a flower painter. Merian had published her first book, a collection of flower engravings, when she was only twenty-three—younger than Maria. But Merian’s great passion was to understand and depict the life cycles of insects, especially moths and butterflies.
In 1699, Merian actually traveled to fabulous Suriname, in South America, on what the Americans would call a “government grant.” The result was her masterpiece, Metamorphosis Insectorum Surinamensium.
“Lolly, about the Ring of Fire. I know that it has already changed history. Gustavus Adolphus doesn’t die at the battle of Lützen, and all that. What happens to the people who would have been born after the Ring of Fire? Are they still destined to come into the world?”
“It depends on when and where they were born,” Lolly replied. “The effect of the Ring of Fire diffuses out from Grantville. We think it would change the weather around the world in a matter of weeks, even though actual news would travel more slowly.
“And it doesn’t take much to change who is born. A soldier leaves his mistress a day earlier than in the old time line. A couple fails to meet, and the two marry other people. A person’s father or mother dies earlier than in the old time line, because an army takes a different path, or a plague ship comes to a different port.”
“The people I am thinking of, one was born in 1664, and the other in 1647.”
“Not a chance, then. Even if their parents were alive in 1631, and married to each other, they will have different children.”
After Lolly left, Maria thought further about the question she had raised. Neither Rachel Ruysch nor Maria Sibylla Merian would ever brighten the world. Their contributions would be limited to the fragments imported from the old time line.
The more Maria thought about it, the more it seemed that, though born in an earlier age, she was their intellectual heir, and that it was her duty to posterity to make a similar contribution. And, with her father and husband both dead, she had a degree of independence that was unusual for women her age.
Suriname. Also known as Guiana. The Wild Coast of South America, between the Maracaibo and the Amazon. There was a Dutch settlement there, she was sure. Her ex-husband, a merchant, had mentioned it more than once. And Catarina, Adolph’s wife, was from a commercial family; she and her kin might know more.
Perhaps it was worth consulting one of the Abrabanels, too. Maria could do more than just draw nature, she could collect it. Was there something in Suriname that the up-timers wanted badly enough that they might pay to send Maria there to look for it? The Abrabanels would know, she was sure. And, as the daughter of a Dutch doctor, she didn’t have the usual Christian prejudice against Jews. Well, some, she admitted, but after more than a year in Grantville, she had been forced to rethink a lot of what she had been taught.
And she mustn’t forget that the library might have books, or at least encyclopedia entries, that would reveal facts not naturally known to anyone of her time.
What would Adolph say if she announced that she was going to Suriname? Even if she were joining a Dutch household there? Oh, the conniptions he would have.
That was just the icing on the cake, as far as Maria was concerned.
Delaware River, near modern Philadelphia, January 1633
David took command of the shallow-drafted Eikhoorn, and left its former skipper, Jan, with the crew of the Walvis, to build and run a shore-based whaling operation. He also had the Walvis and its boats, should he need to take refuge from the Indians.
David, in the Eikhoorn, sailed up the Zuidt River, and, near Jacques Island, the going became rough. The temperature dropped sharply overnight, while they were at anchor, and, the next day, the nineteenth of January, they found the river to have almost entirely crusted over with ice. They had to pick their way, looking for open leads or, if those were absent, areas where the ice was thin enough for them to crash through. The ship shuddered at each attempt, making the crew more than a bit nervous. If the ship foundered, they wouldn’t survive long in the icy water.
“A whale (walvis) would be more at home here than a squirrel (eikhoorn),” David joked. The crew laughed, but their mood soon turned somber again. David tried heading back downriver, but the ice there seemed even thicker.
David pointed out a creek to the helmsman. “Turn in there.”
“You think our chances are better in that kill?” Heyndrick asked.
“Yes, the current’s stronger, that will tend to keep it from freezing solid. Unless it gets colder.” The Eikhoorn crept into this uncertain haven.
The Dutchmen needed to conserve food, if possible, so David sent out a hunting party, led by Heyndrick. He was whistling, slightly off-key, when he returned, and all of his followers had something in hand.
David thumped him on the back. “The hunting went well, I see.”
“Very well. We bagged several wild turkeys. Look at this one.” He held up a carcass. “Must be a good thirty-six pounds.
“And that’s not all. There are wild grapevines everywhere, so we did some picking.”
“Hopefully we won’t be here long enough for the grapes to ferment. But let’s call this creek ‘Wyngard Kill.’”
The weather worsened, and great chunks of ice came down the creek and battered their hull. David had the crew cut down some trees and construct a raft upstream of the Eikhoorn, to serve as a bumper.
On the third of February, the weather relented, and the Eikhoorn headed back toward the coast. But the respite was a short one. Ice reappeared, and once again the Eikhoorn took refuge in a swift-running kill. This cold spell was worse than the one before, and even the creek froze over.
They were trapped in the ice. But at least there were no signs of Indians nearby, hostile or otherwise.
Not until a week later. Fifty Indians, carrying their canoes, walked across the frozen river.
David turned to Vogel. “Order them to halt.”
The Indians looked at the leveled arquebuses and the steel breastplates of the sailors, and stopped, lowering the dugouts onto the ice.
One stepped forward. “We mean you no harm.”
“But you are dressed for war,” David declared.
“We are Minquas, and yes, we are at war, but with the Armewamens, not you. Six hundred of us have come, and the Armewamens flee in terror. We have burned their homes, and their women are now ours. We hunt the few braves who escaped into the forest.”
“There are no Armewamens on this ship, so you have no reason to linger here.”
“No reason,” the spokesman acknowledged. However, the Minquas did linger, carefully inspecting the Eikhoorn and its crew, before they finally trudged on to the far bank.
* * *
“Tide’s coming in, sir,” reported a crewman.
“Good,” David said. “Let’s get this ship out in the mouth of the kill, where the water is widest. Preferably before nightfall.”
David divided the men into two parties, and sent one to each bank, with a heavy rope in hand. There, they started hauling the Eikhoorn downriver. They moved it twenty-five painful paces, no farther.
David went out on the ice and studied the lie of the ship. “The creek’s too shallow, we must lighten the Eikhoorn to make more headway. I need four men to go to the ship and toss out the ballast.”
“We can’t do that, Captain,” said the helmsman. “The Eikhoorn is tall-masted, prone to listing.”
“That’s right, sir,” said one of the mates, “we’ll capsize before we reach the Walvis.” There was a general murmur of agreement.
David frowned ferociously. “It’s a risk we must take. Did you see those painted savages, the Minquas, eyeing us? They’d love to take our guns, our gold, our food. And do you know what they’ll do to us? You’ll be lucky if you are just shot with an arrow, or tomahawked, in battle. If they take you prisoner, they’ll torture you for their evening entertainment. You must lighten the ship, and trust to Divine Providence to save you from the river’s embrace.”
The mate was unimpressed. “If we are going to trust to Divine Providence anyway, why not trust it to save us from the Minquas, instead?”
“What do you want me to do, David?” whispered Heyndrick. “Start throwing out ballast myself? Shoot the ringleader of this mutiny?”
David ignored him. “The tide’s going out, men, even as we argue, and soon the Minquas will be coming in, with blood in their eyes. I have three demijohns of rum in my locker, and I’ll share one out tonight if you throw the ballast overboard. But you must act now.”
Sullenly, the crew came aboard, and jettisoned the ballast. The ship slowly rose in the water, and lurched downstream. It reentered the main river, but proved difficult to control. A thousand paces below the kill, it was swept toward the bank, and the bowsprit was wedged in between the horns of a double-crested hillock of ice.
At dusk, the Minquas attacked. Several feet of icy water still separated the exposed part of the ice from the actual bank. Hence, they had to first leap across the water, onto the midget iceberg, then clamber onto the bowsprit, which pointed landward.
Two of the Indians made it onto the ice, but were confronted by all eight of the crew, armed and armored. They retreated. Throughout the night, David kept two men on the alert at the bowsprit, and the others slept on deck, in their armor, with their weapons beside them.
At dawn, they were still alive. Standing, half-asleep, David read to them. “Let us, with a gladsome mind, praise the Lord, for He is kind.”
The river rose. The ice floated away from shore, carrying the Eikhoorn with it. The iceberg ran aground on a sandbar, and the river swirled angrily around them. The ship creaked in response, and David wondered how long it could endure this treatment.
Then the Indians who were their foe unwittingly became their saviors. The lookout spotted two dugout canoes, unmanned, floating toward them. At David’s order, the crew caught them, and pushed them under the bow. As the waters rose still further, they buoyed up the canoes, and thus the Eikhoorn’s bow as well. At last, when David had almost given up hope that this ploy would succeed, the Eikhoorn was freed from the ice.
By the fourteenth, the wind shifted to the southwest, and brought in warmer air. The ice softened into slush. At their first opportunity, the crew gathered stones for ballast, to restore the yacht’s balance. Soon, they were back in Zuidt River Bay.
* * *
By the end of March, it was clear that the whaling had been a failure. Jan’s people had harpooned seventeen whales, but had little to show for it. Most had been struck in the tail, whereas a Basque or Cape Verde harpooner would have aimed for (and hit) the fore-part of the back. As a result, only seven carcasses had been brought in, and those were the puniest of the lot.
David sighed. “Thirty-two barrels of train oil. My partners will be furious.”
“It’s not your fault that they didn’t give you experienced harpooners, or proper whaleboats, or strong enough cables or winches to handle the larger whales,” said Heyndrick. “Godijn chose the ships and the whaling expert.” They were back on the Walvis, where Jan couldn’t hear them. Still, he kept his voice down.
“Godijn won’t remember that when I return,” said David gloomily. “I will be thrown to the sharks. The financial kind, that is.
“But that’s how it goes.” David raised his voice. “Helmsman, set a course for New Amsterdam. Pieter, signal the Eikhoorn to follow.”
David turned to Heyndrick. “After we reprovision there, we’ll head home. And then I am going to find myself a new patroonate, and new partners. Ones with more trust in my judgment.”
Grantville, July 1633
The theater at the Higgins Hotel was packed with people. The men wore everything from a twentieth-century jacket, pants and tie, to seventeenth-century breeches, blouse and cloak. The women were even more varied in their appearance; black cocktail dresses for some, bodice and bell skirts for others. And of course there were those who wore some combination of up-time and down-time styles, or who had decided to copy a garment of the eighteenth or nineteenth centuries.
“This is a madhouse,” said de Vries. He was seated at a small table near the front of the theater.
Kaspar Heesters, an Amsterdamer who had escorted David to Grantville, shrugged. “There’s method in their madness.”
Hugh Lowe, standing at the podium, tapped the microphone. The loudspeaker squealed. “Can everyone hear me? Welcome to the Grantville Investment Roundtable.
“I am sure that many of you know me already. I used to be the president of the Grantville Chamber of Commerce, and I am now the chairman of the Roundtable.
“Our first guest is Captain David Pieterszoon de Vries, a patroon of the Dutch West India Company. He has an investment proposal for us. Remember, Captain, we limit the summaries to two minutes. My assistant will bring the portable mike to you.”
De Vries took it and stood up. “Thank you, Herr Lowe. My proposal is to establish a colony on the Wild Coast, the area of northern South America between the Orinoco and the Amazon. Your English compatriots call it the Guianas. In your late twentieth century, there were three countries there: Guiana, Suriname, and French Guiana. My colony would be in Suriname. What was once called Dutch Guiana.
“I intend to transfer my patroon privileges in the West India Company from America to Suriname. I would be entitled to a patroonate of, oh, about twelve hundred square miles.” There was a gasp from somewhere in the audience.
“This would be, primarily, an agricultural colony. It would grow tobacco and cotton, of a surety. Orlean, too, that’s an Indian dye plant. Sugar cane, if we can find a suitable teacher. And I hope that there may be plants not yet known to us which are of value.
“As to other possibilities, once the colony is established, I can take a yacht upriver, to look for the gold which Suriname is reputed to possess.” He was referring to the legend of El Dorado, and the Lake of Manoa. “Or I can take my squadron privateering; that can be very lucrative.”
David finished off by discussing how much money he was trying to raise, and what it would be spent on. “There is a—” He looked blank for a moment.
“Handout,” whispered Kaspar.
“—handout by the door. Thank you for listening to me.” He sat down.
“Are there any questions for the captain?” said Hugh.
David Bartley stood up. “Aren’t you worried that the Spanish will wipe out your colony?”
David de Vries was surprised that a youngster would ask questions in such a gathering, but answered his question politely. “There are already Dutch, French and English settlements on the Wild Coast, and the Spanish have simply ignored them. Well, most of them.”
“And where are you going to get your colonists? I don’t think you’re going to find many here in Grantville.”
“There are many displaced peasants in Germany and Flanders, thanks to the wars. This would be their big chance to own land of their own.”
Chad Jenkins, one of the major landowners in Grantville, stood up. “Captain De Vries, you are going to have to find a suitable site for this colony of yours. Do you have experience as an explorer?
“Yes, in the Barents Sea, in my youth, and more recently in the Americas, between the Zuidt and Noord Rivers.”
“The South and North.” Kaspar Heesters explained. “What up-timers would call the Delaware and Hudson Rivers.”
Chad wasn’t finished. “And have you been in more tropical climes?”
“I spent several years with Coen in the East Indies, and I also visited several islands of the West Indies on my last voyage.”
Claus Junker raised a newspaper. “Joe Buckley says here that you were involved in the Zwaanandael disaster. The attempt to found a colony in Delaware.”
David’s face reddened. “That was hardly my fault. I had sought the command of the first expedition, but it was denied. Indeed, I had to stay at home, trusting to the leaders picked by my partners. And on the second trip, it was the so-called whaling expert who failed, not me.”
Endres Ritter chimed in. “You know all about financial disasters caused by picking the wrong partners, don’t you, Claus?” It was a reference to Claus’ ill-fated investment in microwave ovens. The two men glared at each other.
Claus returned to his original target. “But even if it weren’t your fault, your . . . association with a failed venture has made it difficult for you to raise money for your latest enterprise, hasn’t it?”
David folded his arms. “It made it difficult for me to fund it myself. But I do have prospective investors. Jan Bicker of Amsterdam, for one. And two of his friends.” There was an answering murmur from the financiers in the room. “Coming here was not a necessity. I was hoping to raise more money, to be able to give the colony a more secure foundation.
“And I hoped that there might be some Germans here who had a yen to own their own farm in the New World.”
An up-timer stood up. “And I imagine your colonists are going to steal their new farmland from the natives. And then either force them into labor, or kill them outright.”
“That’s Andrew Yost,” Kaspar whispered to David. “He’s manager of the Grantville Freedom Arches, and one of the leaders in the local Committee of Correspondence. I told you about that.”
“Herr Yost, if you examine the history of what someone earlier referred to as the ‘Zwaanandael disaster,’ you will find that despite great provocation—the murder of thirty settlers in America while I was still in the Netherlands—I did not retaliate in kind. I was able to trade for furs, with the Lenape. And I kept all of my crew alive, without having to kill any Indians.”
A gentleman with a moustache and a goatee stood up. He was dressed in a staggering variety of colors, leaving David with the impression of a somewhat cadaverous peacock. “Captain, I am Doctor Phillip Theophrastus Gribbleflotz. You mentioned mining for gold. But there is a mineral, prolific in Suriname, which is a necessary precursor to the preparation of the ‘Quinta Essentia of the Human Humors.’ This mineral is called bauxite. Perhaps—”
“No,” Tracy Kubiak moaned. “Not aluminum, again.” Bauxite was the principal ore of aluminum, an up-time metal that fascinated the alchemists because of its silvery appearance and extraordinary lightness.
Doctor Phil sighed. “Perhaps we should talk about it privately. I will call upon you.”
There were no more questions. Hugh Lowe repositioned the mike. “Okay, our next speaker is going to bring us an update on the concrete project. . . .”
* * *
“Captain, I am Johann Georg Hardegg, an attorney from Rudolstadt. My clients were quite interested in your presentation last week. They think there could be some commonality of interest.”
“I beg your pardon?” said David. He had learned English in his youth, but he wasn’t sure whether that was what Hardegg was speaking.
“He thinks you can work together,” Kaspar explained.
“If you will follow me, I will introduce you to the principal members.”
They walked down an elegantly decorated corridor of the Higgins Hotel, and Hardegg knocked on the door. David heard a muffled “About time.”
There were both up-timers and down-timers in the room. David recognized several of them, and exchanged greetings with Hugh Lowe and Endres Ritter. There was no sign of Claus Junker.
The nobleman at the head of the table said, “My name is Count August von Sommersburg.” David bowed.
“Our group has some interest in that part of the world. For example, in Trinidad. It has great deposits of tar.”
“The place Sir Walter Raleigh visited when he needed to caulk his ships?”
“Yes, that’s right. We can use that tar in road building. Then there is a material called rubber. It’s used in the tires of our cars. The rubber comes from—call it the sap—of certain trees.”
David raised his hand. “I know nothing about trees.”
“That’s all right. We have a tree expert who wants to go to Suriname to study and do research. As for your proposed colony, Captain, hopefully it will be able to tap the Surinamese rubber trees. If not, we have some other economically interesting plants which we are hoping can grow there. Coconut palms, coffee, a few others. Of course, you should be looking for native plants of value.”
“Tell him about the other rubber trees,” urged Joseph Stull. He was informally handling transportation matters for the New United States and was likely to be named secretary of transportation when the NUS got around to creating that cabinet position.
The count nodded. “If we can’t get rubber from Suriname, you’ll have to go into the Viceroyalty of New Spain.” That formally encompassed Mexico, Central America, the Spanish West Indies and the southern United States.
David steepled his fingers. “They don’t exactly welcome foreigners.”
“The source we’re interested in is pretty far from the Spanish towns. Here, let me show you on a map.” He rolled one out on the table. He ran his finger along the coast from Honduras to Nicaragua. “We can work this stretch. The ‘Miskito Coast.’”
“Hmm,” said David. “That’s convenient. Here—” he twirled his finger over the Bay of Honduras “—that’s prime hunting ground for capturing Spanish galleons.”
Hugh Lowe shook his head. “We aren’t interested in privateering. We don’t see a distinction between it and piracy.”
“Oh, no? I think Dutch privateers capture a ship a week in that part of the world. Galleons, caravels and coasters. Ship and cargo worth as much as two hundred thousand guilders.”
Someone in the back of the room muttered, “Let’s keep our options open, then. It’s not like the Spanish are friendly to us.”
“You have been in sea battles, Captain?” asked the count.
Kaspar interrupted. “Captain de Vries is famous in that regard. He had some great victories against the Barbary pirates.”
“But no Spanish treasure ships came my way, unfortunately,” David admitted. “Or I wouldn’t be talking to you now.”
* * *
“So, Captain, I understand that your only reservation to our ‘counterproposal’ is the choice of a woman, Maria Vorst, as your, uh, ‘Chief Science Officer.’”
“That’s right, Herr Lowe. I am sure that she knows her plants and all, but I don’t believe that she can possibly comprehend the rigors of an expedition.
“It is true that there are Dutch colonists already in Guiana—at Fort Kykoveral on the Essequibo—but I doubt that there are any white women among them. It would be one thing if she were going to stay in the new colony, but she intends to join us in exploring the rainforest.
“Moreover, it is quite possible that we will have to go to the Miskito Coast for this rubber, which will put her in hazard of capture, and worse, by the Spanish. How can I agree to put this delicate flower of Dutch society into such straits?”
“Hmm, well, you did agree that it was only fair to meet her before making any decisions.”
“Yes, I so agreed. I am not sure why we had to meet out here.”
“I think she wanted to show you something.”
They stood on a hill near the southwest rim of the Ring Wall. When Grantville was deposited into seventeenth-century Thuringia, it was in such a way that, in general, the Grantville terrain was lower than the surrounding Thuringian land. Nowhere was the transition more dramatic than here in the southwest, where the Ring separated the power plant from the castle of Schwarzburg.
“Well, I can’t complain about the view.” Where the Ring Wall was intact, it was perfectly smooth, and shone like a mirror in the morning sunlight. Some of the rock had been destabilized by the change, and had fallen onto the American side. The Schwarza river dropped sharply, perhaps ten or fifteen feet, forming the Schwarza waterfall. It was a triangular curtain of water, higher on river left than river right. It then descended, in a series of smaller drops and rapids, over the bed newly formed by the fallen rock, to the Grantville valley floor. The path was not a straight one. First, it paralleled the Ring Wall, then it curved away. Ultimately, the water entered the Spring Branch, a tributary of Buffalo Creek.
“So, when will I meet this Maria?”
“Here she comes now.” Lowe pointed upriver, at a lone figure in a bright red kayak at the top of the falls. As David gaped, the kayaker pencilled over. David ran to a better vantage point, expecting to see an overturned kayak, and perhaps a lifeless body spinning in the foam.
Maria was already past the hydraulic at the foot of the falls, and gave them a quick salute with her paddle as she rested in an eddy. She then paddled on. They watched as she “boof-stroked” over a second, smaller waterfall.
“So, I hope you are up to a bit of a hike, now. We have to go down to the valley floor so you can properly question this, uh, delicate flower of Dutch society.”