Stiernsköld shook his head. “No,” he said flatly.
Sehested started, stared between the two men as if seeking prior collusion and frowned when he saw there was none.
“Captain Stiernsköld,” Eddie continued, “do you think you ever will be comfortable commanding one?”
The Swede nodded. “Most certainly. Once I have received adequate training. But I have not. I am told I was included in the flotilla for my abilities with fast, mixed rig sailing vessels, such as the Tropic Surveyor. As you no doubt know, Commander Cantrell, I was only briefed on the steamships’ capabilities so that I knew what they might do and how best to coordinate with them. I received no training in their operation.”
Sehested leaned back, nodded. “Very well. You have made your point, Commander Cantrell, and most convincingly. I withdraw my reservations over the proper chain of command in the ships of the flotilla. But I still cannot countenance a foreign captain—even one so skilled and friendly to our cause as Captain Simonszoon—to be the master of Resolve.”
Eddie rubbed his nose and schooled his voice to be apologetic yet firm. “Unfortunately, Lord Sehested, that objection is a bit beside the point.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Lord Sehested, so we all understand your position with complete clarity, who appointed you to the flotilla?”
Sehested’s frown intensified as he spoke, seemed to be veering toward umbrage. “You know very well that it was your own father-in-law, Christian IV, who asked me to accompany this mission.”
“Yes, but on what authority did he make that assignment?”
Sehested opened his mouth but shut it again, his eyes narrowing slightly. Clearly, he saw where this was heading. “He was exercising his prerogative as one of the sovereigns of the union of Kalmar.”
“Yes. Which is not a member of the United States of Europe, nor are any of its constituent powers. Now, the steam cruisers: to whom do they belong?”
“The United States of Europe—whose monarch is Gustav Adolf, who is also primus inter pares among the monarchs of the union of Kalmar.”
“That is very true. But it is also quite a separate matter. Gustav Adolf may indeed dictate the actions of the USE in his role as its monarch, but not in his role as the king of Sweden or as the first-among-equals from the union of Kalmar. Consequently, unless my understanding of the prerogatives that attach to these separate roles is in error, none of the Danish, or even Swedish, members of the flotilla may speak for, or presume authority possessed by, the USE. That would fall to individuals who are nationals of the USE, or who have been directly and explicitly named by Gustav Adolf of Sweden to be operating in its service.”
“Such as yourself,” van Walbeeck concluded, a slight grin hidden behind his hand, “on both counts.”
Eddie shrugged. “It does so happen that I am the senior ranking representative of the USE with the flotilla.” A position which Simpson made absolutely sure of, bless his crusty and irascible hide. It was as if he saw this wrestling match coming from the very moment I proposed the mission. “Consequently, while it was agreed, from the outset, that I could not hold a field rank equivalent to the many senior Danish and Swedish commanders in the flotilla, my equal share of authority regarding the management and strategy of the flotilla was—and remains—undiminished.” He turned to Simonszoon, whose usually veiled eyes were wide in frank admiration. Didn’t think I had the stones for this sort of down-and-dirty politicking, eh, Dirck? Well, guess what: neither did I. Eddie didn’t miss a beat. “Captain Dirck Simonszoon, as a sign of the amity and alliance between our nations here in the New World, might I ask you to accept the temporary command of the USS Resolve as a special commission?”
“Commander—Sir! It would be my honor, if my admiral may spare me from the Dutch fleet.”
Tromp smiled. “You have my leave and encouragement to accept Commander Cantrell’s offer, Captain. Make the Provinces proud.”
Simonszoon scoffed. “And when have I done any less?”
Van Walbeeck grinned. “Do you mean on the deck of a ship, or in a grog shop?”
Dirck pointedly did not glance down the table at Jan, but rather, tugged at his collar. “It’s getting hot in here. Let’s finish this damned meeting.”
Oranjestad, St. Eustatia
The one large wooden building in Oranjestad—an all-purpose gemeentehuis, indoor market, and dance hall—was already starting to fill with eager guests. The somber mood of the late morning funeral that had been conducted not twenty yards away had dissipated completely. That was hardly a surprise: Pros Mund had stepped ashore all of one time, and the whispering behind cupped hands opined that his wife was at best a recluse and at worst an emotionless and aloof exemplar of all that was deplorable in aristocrats.