Commander Cantrell in the West Indies(234)

Oranjestad, St. Eustatia





Anne Cathrine nodded to Michael McCarthy, Jr., who had seemed fairly calm until he caught a glimpse of the three Danish ladies entering the makeshift defenses. Their arrival had elicited the same degree of desperate solicitousness that had so afflicted Cuthbert Pudsey only five minutes earlier. Strange. Although up-time men were so ready to confer equality upon women in so many matters, they were no different than their down-time brothers when it came to the matter of combat. In some ways it made up-time male attitudes towards women frustratingly inconsistent and yet, familiar.

But the three Danish ladies had stood their ground against Michael McCarthy’s objections. They pointed out that a dozen other Dutch women were in the defense lines, mostly to reload the muskets of the men who were sheltering in the trenches or behind the hasty, flimsy barrel barricades that flanked them. Michael had countered that those women were the exception, not the rule, and that most of the women had complied with his order to stay away from the coming battlefield. Anne Cathrine had listened through to the end of his exhortations, and then promptly turned on her heel, but not to depart the defenses. Rather, she began crying an alarm among the tents, calling specifically upon women to come out and take their places along the barricades or in the ditches. Michael had rolled his eyes but had been too busy, or maybe too sensible, to waste any more time trying to end what he could not even forestall.

Looking out toward the dust cloud being raised by the approaching enemy, Anne Cathrine surveyed their defenses. Two ditches guarded the eastern approaches to the town. Each offered waist-deep cover for fifteen men, at most. Most of the soldiers were there, along with a few of the townsmen who had turned out to help. The barricades were manned by the balance of the soldiers and townsmen, the workers who’d made it off The Quill, and those few landowners who had decided to throw their lot in with their neighbors.

She approached the northern trench, where Sophie was calmly surveying the enemy’s approach, a fowling piece in her long, slender hands. Leonora waited just behind her, ramrod, powder and balls at the ready. Anne Cathrine wondered if there was some argument, any argument, that she could use to get Leonora off the line. At least one of them should take care to survive this battle and so, be a consolation to their father. “Leonora,” Anne Cathrine murmured, “should you not be in the infirmary, ready to help Dr. Brand&aTilde;o with the wounded?”

Leonora’s smile was small as she shook her head. “I think not, Sister. If these attackers break our ranks here, they will be upon the infirmary in three minutes and slay all there. So here is the best place where I may work to ensure that the wounded actually have someplace to be treated. Besides,” she said, patting the closest powder horn, “I have made a study of the loading and reloading actions undertaken by the soldiers at the fort, when they are at drill. I think I shall make a useful reloader for Sophie.”

Sophie nodded. “She seems quite adept.”

Anne Cathrine raised an eyebrow. “And you? You are a soldier, too, Sophie?”

“No, Anne Cathrine, but I grew up on wooded estates with a father who, as sheriff, took pleasure in hunting for much of the meat that graced our table.” She smiled. “He took great pains to pass some of those skills on to me, at least when it came to shooting waterfowl. So I suspect I may be of some use, here.”

“I’m sure you shall be. I wish I was of more use.”

Sophie stared at her. “You really do not see how the other women look at you?”

“What?”

“Anne Cathrine, they see you carrying that pistol, walking behind these trenches. They do not think, ‘there walks the king’s daughter, who knows not how to help.’ They think, ‘there walks the king’s daughter, who gave us the courage to join our men here on these lines, who moves behind us like our better conscience, proof that to be a woman is not to be weak.’ If you were not here, and visibly so, there would be far fewer women here now. And our numbers may yet help decide the outcome of this battle.”

“I truly hope so, Sophie, I truly—”

With a savage cacophony of war cries, shouts, and taunts that shared not a single syllable in common, the Kalinago warriors began sprinting across the three hundred yards between them and the meager defenses of Oranjestad. Following them a hundred yards farther back at a modest trot were what looked like musketeers, some European, some native.

Michael McCarthy’s voice was loud and surprisingly authoritative. “Hold your fire till they clear the stubble of the closest canebrake. That’s about one hundred yards. Reloaders, you need to grab the shooters’ spent muskets right away and reload them quickly. If you do that, we’ll get off three volleys, which might break them. If you don’t, we’ll get off two and they’re likely to overrun us. Now stay down and under cover until you get the order to fire.”