“Yes,” replied Larry. “But we’re not on the land or anywhere near its flora, fauna, or inhabitants, yet. Unless you are telling me that your expertise starts from three miles off shore?”
Kleinbaum clearly did not want to respond, but knew he had to: he shook his head. “But going upriver always invites trouble—no matter where you are.”
“Does it?” Larry countered quickly. “Kleinbaum, just so you know, I’m going up into the inlet a few dozen meters so that we’ll have some depth in which we can anchor and sleep aboard. Yeah, it will be crowded, but we can scoot in a minute. Whereas if we pulled onto the beach on either side of the inlet, we’d have to haul the boat back into the surf before we could get away. Does that sound like a better idea to you?”
From behind, Larry could see Kleinbaum’s jaw working angrily. “No, sir,” he answered finally.
Quinn leaned back, raising his binoculars again. On either side of the narrow inlet that ultimately led to Calcasieu Lake, low sand-and-scree shores stretched straight and narrow into the vanishing-point distance of either horizon. Beyond them, low scrub brush and occasional stunted trees gave the land the appearance of having a youngster’s tousled head of hair. Nothing foreboding. Hell, nothing much at all.
“Major Quinn,” Karl said so quietly that he was almost inaudible over the surging growl of the Sportsman’s engine, “I think I remember reading that the Atakapas have an extensive coastal range.”
Leave it to Karl to read all the supplemental briefing materials. “That’s correct.”
“Then why did we start toward the Mermentau River before the Courser left Galveston Bay, sir? If something should go wrong—well, there aren’t many of us to handle any unexpected problems.”
“Karl, that was very tactfully put, but I’m not a particularly tactful person, so I’m going to answer your real question. Yes, this boat and its small crew will head up the Mermentau as soon as we reach it. Alone. Because even once the Courser joins us, her forces will be too far away to make much of a difference. Not unless we wait for them to paddle the ship’s boats upriver with us. Which rather defeats the purpose of having a motorboat: to explore and make contact quickly. And to be able to leave quickly as well, if need be.”
Karl swallowed; he glanced back at Wright and Vogel’s lever-action rifles. “I understand, sir. But wouldn’t the natives be more inclined to, er, diplomacy if they understood, from the start, that we had a strong force at our disposal?”
Quinn smiled ruefully. “You know, Karl, that was pretty much the first-contact philosophy throughout the colonization of the New World. And most of the time, it set exactly the wrong tone. Can we awe them? Sure. But there are two problems with that strategy. First, they are the masters of this country, not us. So if they want to stay unfound and unmet, they’d have no trouble doing so, particularly if we bring a company of troops to blunder around in the bush and the swamps that they grew up in.
“Second, if we do meet them, do we really want to awe them? Awe is the first cousin to fear, which has its roots in threat. If you consider the accounts of first contact in this part of the country, the smaller the contacting group, the more personal the interactions. You bring too large a group, and you look like invaders or a warchief with an escort. But if you come in smaller numbers, you look like explorers and are treated more as individuals, which is how friendships start.” Quinn rubbed his close-cropped hair. “My ancestors spent two hundred years trying to intimidate and control the natives in the New World. And yeah, they got their way, but killed whole nations in the process. This time, knowing a little bit about the different tribes in advance, we’re going to try a different approach.”
Karl nodded. “This sounds most prudent—and ethical. Although even if they are our friends, that does not mean they will be willing to let us drill holes in their land.”
No, thought Quinn, it doesn’t. Which could put one hell of a giant wrinkle in all our fine plans. But all he said was, “Give it a little more throttle, Karl. Take us in.”
Santo Domingo, Hispaniola
Fadrique Álvarez de Toledo, Admiral of the Armada de Barlovento, hearing the sudden increase in gaiety in the villa’s great-room beneath them, raised a glass of rioja toward his host, who sat opposite him at the table in the well-appointed study. “Happy New Year, Don de Viamonte. A fine party, worthy of the grandees of Madrid.”
Juan Bitrian de Viamonte y Navarra, who was still flushed from the exertions of dancing the evening’s first extended rigaudon, waved away the compliment. “First, the party is not so fine as you say, and you know it well. Second, if I am to be able to deflect your tiresome courtesies with good nature, we must agree to first names. And last, the party is not a half-worthy celebration of what you accomplished, my dear Admiral.”