Chapter 3
Recife, Brazil
Tromp stared at the door that had closed behind Calabar’s exhaustion-sloped shoulders. “He is not a talkative fellow.”
“Surely you’d already noticed that.” Jol slipped a piece of bread out of the woven reed basket at the center of the heavy, much scored, tabletop.
Tromp shrugged. “Yes, but Calabar has always been part of a group, before. Meetings, always with senior commanders present. Under more private circumstance, I had thought”—well, hoped—“that he might become more expressive.”
Jol smiled around the remains of the bread in his mouth; he never looked more like a sea dog than when he was eating. “I told you he was a man of action and few words.”
“So you did.”
Houtebeen glanced at the basket again. “And is he not the man I claimed him to be? Ideal for your—our—needs? And a most agreeable fellow, besides?”
Tromp nodded. “He is all that. And he has adapted admirably to his role as not merely a leader of scouts, but a commander of soldiers.”
Jol pocketed another piece of bread. “Maarten, even when you agree with me, when you end on that tone I know there’s a ‘however’ waiting just behind it.”
Tromp’s smile was slight but genuine. “It is annoying that you know me so well.”
“I’d better. You’re not exactly an open book yourself. So tell me: what is it that bothers you about Calabar? Do you still doubt his loyalty?”
Tromp shook his head. “No. But I am uncertain if he is sufficiently…prudent.”
“Oh, that. So you’ve heard that he can be a bit of a hothead?” Jol shrugged. “Occasionally, yes. But that’s not a cause for worry, Maarten. That’s a trait for which you should be grateful.”
Tromp felt the frown growing on his face before he could suppress it. “You are saying that we want a hothead leading our troops?”
Jol sighed, shook his head, grabbed another piece of bread without the faintest hint of subterfuge or shame. “Maarten Tromp, you are a fine commander of ships. Probably the best I’ve ever seen. Except when I’m looking in a mirror, that is.” They both smiled. “But as chaotic as a battle at sea can become, it always requires a measure of reserve, of restraint. There are too many details, both of devices and tactics, that a good officer must always bear in mind.
“But that is not the way of commanding men on land, Admiral—of which I have done much more than your lofty self.” Jol’s grin became positively piratical. “That, my friend, is a dirty, nasty business, and one that often rewards split-second decisiveness which looks like impetuosity to those who have not struggled at close quarters.” He stole another piece of bread.
“So you are saying that Calabar is not hotheaded?”
Jol grinned. “Only when he should be.”
Tromp refused to return the smile. “That is not an answer. That is an evasion.”
Jol’s smile disappeared. “In truth, Maarten, it is not. Particularly not here in the New World. Given the ranges at which we usually fight, a high temperament is a weapon unto itself. What Calabar lacks in training and physical size he makes up for in courage, passion, decisiveness, ferocity. He would not be a very successful soldier in Europe, you know. Imagine him there, carrying a musket in a formation that marches to and fro, the front line of muskets firing at the enemy and vice versa, like ships pouring broadsides into each other.
“But when the day is decided by a final charge, when those tidy ranks become gangs of desperate savages murdering each other with pistols and swords, then Calabar would be your man. There, as here, in the chaos of personal combat, his temperament is no longer a handicap. That is what makes him a dangerous opponent and an inspiring leader, because that is precisely the nature of the wars we wage in the New World. Here there are no set-piece battles, only sudden, brutal skirmishes.”
Jol dusted crumbs from his hands, set them on his knees. “People born in these lands, they are different because they see the world differently. Back in Europe, we grow up surrounded by roads, and tall buildings, and complex tools and skills of every kind. Even for those of us who happily leave all that behind”—Jol leaned back with a broad grin—“it is nevertheless the lens through which we always see the world: a place dominated by the handiwork of humans.”
His grin diminished, became more reflective. “Not so here. Look at this place, this Recife we’ve built. Here, this grand town is not the rule, but the oddity. It is the untamed continent that crowds up against our small streets which shapes the people of Brazil.”
He frowned. “Europeans call them ‘savages.’ I say they are simply more direct. In Europe, we put layers between who we are and what we may do. Feelings, instincts, reflexes; we filter and alter them like a dog pulling back on its own leash. And so we congratulate ourselves on being ‘civilized.’ This place and its people are more truly human, more honest.”
“You are saying there is no treachery among the peoples of the New World?” Tromp tried to keep his voice from veering toward incredulity.
“Now, Maarten, you know I am not so foolish as to claim that. But this much is true: whatever normal measure of deceit already existed here has grown a hundredfold in response to our own, nourished by the manure of the ‘civilized’ duplicity that lurks behind our laws and religions and dainty manners.”
“I think,” Tromp murmured, “that I now understand your choice of a career much better than I have before.”
Jol nodded. “That is why I spend so little time back home. I would rather be around men like Calabar. He, like many other people of the New World, may occasionally seem rash, but they are fundamentally honest—except when they are lied to. Then…well, why should they keep promises to us when we prove ourselves faithless?”
Tromp raised an eyebrow. “And is that what happened with Calabar and the Portuguese?”
Jol nodded. “They not only lied to him, but made promises in the name of a God that he respects more truly and fervently than they. You wanted a man you could trust, both in terms of his knowledge and his character. Calabar is that man.”
Tromp frowned. “I do not question his basic honesty, and certainly not his effectiveness. But it is imperative that his actions do not become an—an embarrassment to our nation or William of Orange.”
“As if similar concerns ever give the Spanish a moment’s pause.”
Tromp thumped his knuckles against the table. “Are we to hold ourselves to no better standard than theirs? Jol, when we arrived and I said there are many changes coming, and that they will be bold, I was utterly serious. I was somewhat uncertain then, but since that first night, I have watched, have read, have thought carefully. And so what began as a sympathetic impulse has become a reasoned, ethical resolve: that here in the New World, we must not merely prevail on the battlefield, but in the eyes of God.”
Cornelis Jol stopped chewing the latest piece of bread. “Maarten…Admiral, are you contemplating—?”
Tromp did not let him finish. One difficult debate at a time. “It is not enough that Calabar can win battles. He must also understand the need for restraint. And on this matter—his ability to think clearly in the heat of combat, to separate his thought and responsibilities from his passions and his impulses—I have no report. His men speak highly of him, yes. And yes, he betrayed his Portuguese masters to join us. From what I can tell today, he also has good manners when visiting a superior’s house. But none of that tells me what manner of man we are trusting with our future. For that is exactly what we are doing.” Tromp sat, locked eyes with Jol, arms crossed as he waited for the other to reply.
Houtebeen sighed and settled into a chair opposite Maarten’s. “Do you not feel there is a certain irony in ascertaining the better points of a man’s character by asking the opinion of a pirate?”
“Privateer,” Tromp corrected.
Jol waved away the distinction. “There are none among Calabar’s superiors or soldiers who speak ill of him. Indeed, he is said to be sensitive to the needs of his men and genuinely dedicated to his religion.”
“By which you mean—?”
“By which I mean he does not simply pay lip service to his faith—not the way so many of the Spaniards and Portuguese do, sinning like devils because every Sunday they can step into a confessional and settle their conscience and their account with God. And so, start all over again as soon as they exit.
“Calabar is not often described as being a warm man, but his men know him to be just, and his devotion to his family is unswerving. And, as you must already realize, he is most discreet.”
Tromp nodded. Not quite the insights he had hoped for, but they were promising. And besides, that was the most he was going to be able to ascertain. “Very well. Then trust him we shall.”
Jol scratched his slightly furry ear. “Given all the missions he’s been sent on, I thought you already did trust him.”
Tromp shrugged. “Managing a battle is a short-lived and straightforward matter compared to what lies before us.”
“You mean abandoning Recife? Yes, that will be quite a—”
Tromp shook his head. “Leaving this place is only the beginning of the challenges that we will need to address. And endure.”
Jol squinted at his friend and commander for several long moments. “Maarten, what you said earlier, about prevailing in the eyes of God: are you proposing—”
“The end of slavery.”
Jol pulled back as if Tromp’s words were a fist aimed at his face. “Maarten, you know I share that sentiment, but—”
“It is not simply a ‘sentiment.’ Nor can there be any ‘buts’ about this matter. Piety, morality, and prudence all argue against manumission, and our break from Recife gives us an opportunity to break with this ‘institution.’”
“Yes, it might,” Jol allowed. “But you must expect trouble.” The pirate sucked at the uneven collection of yellowed teeth that remained in his gums; it made a sound of anxious misgiving. “If you do this, you are putting your hand in the landowners’ pockets. And the only reason they braved the perils of the New World was to fill those pockets with gold.”
“And so they may, but without owning other human beings to do so. Human beings who must have freedom and fair recompense for their labor.”
“‘Must have’? History’s great empires were built on—depended upon—the backs and labor of slaves. It has ever been thus, from before the time of Moses.”
“You make my point for me, Jol. The Pharaohs were ultimately made weaker as they increasingly depended upon slaves. Exodus shows the inevitable outcome. The same holds true for Rome; Spartacus’ revolt was inevitable. And if slaves themselves do not rebel, they are ready friends to the foes of those who keep them in chains. We cannot afford that risk to our colony’s safety any more than we can afford the risk to our individual souls.”
“Maarten, I know how personal this matter is to you. Twice a slave, first in Salé and then Tunis: surely that has left its mark upon—”
Tromp waved aside Jol’s explanation for his fervor. “No, Jol. That was not truly slavery. It was labeled so probably to quicken the grief and loosen the purse strings of relatives they hoped would pay my ransom.”
Jol’s smile was rueful. “Yes…and a pity you were not the son of a wealthy man.”
“Perhaps…or perhaps those years of bondage shaped me for the better. How would I have felt about slavery without those experiences, as mild as they were?”
“Mild? Maarten, to be deprived of one’s freedom is not—”
“Is not synonymous with the horror that is true slavery.” Maarten scoffed. “When held by the Dutch Bey of Salé, I was more a pampered pet than anything else. Later, while a prisoner of the Bey of Tunis, he honored me above his own captains, and ultimately set me free.”
“Because you were, on both occasions, both unbowed and ten times the sailor of the best in their service. They admired you, Maarten.”
“Which is quite beside the point. In European terms, I was not truly a slave, merely a prisoner on open parole. I was not abased, I was not deemed subhuman.” Tromp jabbed an index finger toward the cane fields surrounding Recife. “That—that out there—is true slavery. Our practice of it may be less harsh than that of the Spanish or Portuguese, but the fact remains that those people, those children of God, are property. Their owners may treat them like animals, and work them even harder. In the face of that, I cannot say that what I experienced among the Barbary pirates was slavery.”
Jol grunted. “You will get no argument from me that it is evil for one human to own another. But still, I ask that you tread lightly on this matter. At least for a time. If the Spanish and Portuguese have slaves and we have none, then it will be their plantations that run more efficiently, produce more goods. If that occurs, the backbone of our colonies—the cane growers—will lose their profits, and you will lose their support. Which will destroy us more certainly than all Spain’s ships and men. So, sadly, the West India Company must keep slaves, too, if only for a while.”
Tromp shook his head, even though he heard and could not debate the bitter, pragmatic truth of Jol’s warning. “I will not be”—he gritted his teeth—“rash. But the time is coming when we must—must—eradicate slavery.”
“Agreed. Our safety—and perhaps our souls as well—depend upon it.”
Tromp shook his head less violently this time. “It goes beyond that, Cornelis.” Jol seemed to wince at the use of his given name. “For a century, the winds of social change have been rising. The up-time histories provide a perverse hindsight which confirms that trend. But now, whether they want to or not, the up-timers—and their ideas—are now whipping those winds into a hurricane. And slavery and autocrats will be the first to feel the full fury of that tempest. Accordingly, it is both wise and just to set our sails to catch those winds, to not merely accept the change but be a part of it.”
Jol grinned. “Well, then you can surely place all your trust in Calabar, Maarten. He has been treated as half-human all his life and hates slavery with a passion.”
Tromp shook his head. “No, Jol. That is precisely where you are wrong, and why I am worried. I know Calabar hates slavery. And it is that very passion which could get him—and us—into trouble.”
Jol was frowning again. “How so?”
“You said it yourself: whether or not we wish it, we must tread slowly in addressing the issue of slavery. But will he, Calabar, be able to tread slowly? Will his passions let him?”
Two of Houtebeen’s unprepossessing teeth came down softly on his lower lip. “I wish I could say, Maarten.”
Who nodded gravely. “So do I, old friend. So do I.”