“You. Or more precisely, everyone’s assessment of you.”
Eddie must have looked startled, because Tromp’s face was briefly creased with an outright grin—very unusual for such a reserved man. “Come now, Eddie. Surely you understood the predicament we were all in—you more than anyone, perhaps. On the one hand, we were dependent on your knowledge and skills. On the other . . .”
Eddie understood. “I had no . . . the term we up-timers use is ‘track record.’” Seeing Tromp’s slight frown of puzzlement, Eddie clarified the term. “That means personal—no, more like professional—history. You knew nothing about my . . . well, courage, I suppose.”
“Not exactly that.” Tromp’s grin half-reappeared. “The Danes are quite fond of you. Not only married to one of their king’s daughters but, in an odd sort of way, they seem to have transmuted your somewhat suicidal ramming of one of their ships at Wismar into a Danish feat.”
Eddie didn’t bother trying to explain that the supposedly “somewhat suicidal ramming” at Wismar had been entirely an accident. He’d fought and lost that battle too many times already. Legends could have the thickest hides in creation.
Tromp shook his head. “But frenzied berserk courage is not the same thing as cool control under fire, maintained for hours. That, more than anything, is what a commander has to have—and that is what you displayed at Vieques. Displayed in full measure. So no one has any questions, any longer, about your fitness for command. Which means”—he issued a slight chuckle—“that the next time you try to caution us that we don’t understand some subtlety of the way up-time technology affects naval tactics, everyone will listen respectfully. Even Johan van Galen. That may prove critical in the battles still to come.”
A little embarrassed, Eddie didn’t know quite how to respond. Luckily, an interruption came. A side door into the ballroom opened and a squarish man entered. He was not dressed for the party. Rather, he looked like a workman, perhaps come to fix one of the storm shutters.
Eddie smiled: Mike McCarthy, Jr. “Hey, Mr. Mike!” Eddie cried out, reverting to the form of address he’d used as a kid, “over here!”
Mike scanned for the source of the voice, spotted Eddie, nodded curtly, and began the laborious job of winding through the dense throngs of men clustered about any woman on or near the dance floor. When he finally extricated himself from the eager, sweating, would-be swains, he looked about in exasperation. “Jeez,” he exhaled, “I really am glad I decided not to come.”
“And yet, here you are,” observed Tromp with a small smile. Then the admiral became quite grave. “Mr. McCarthy, before the moment slips away, I want to say that this colony owes you a singular debt of gratitude, although not all of our citizens are comfortable admitting, and therefore, expressing it. So allow me to say this for every man and woman on St. Eustatia: had our landowners’ slaves not been converted into bondsmen with freedom in their future, I am quite certain they would have either joined the Kalinago during the attack, or simply stood aside. And that would have been the end of this colony, given how very many of our troops were in service elsewhere or embarked on the transports heading for Santo Domingo.”
Mike did exactly what Eddie expected: he waved it off. “I’m just a guy with a big mouth, Admiral. Sometimes that big mouth is helpful, sometimes it’s harmful. No reason to get worked up too much, either way. I’m just here to drop off a few pieces of news: the radio is working again. I’ve got two messages that came through clearly from Europe. We were trying to trade signals with Vlissingen all afternoon, which was working as a priority relay to the naval radio shack in Luebeck.”
“So you were swapping Morse code with headquarters, but not Grantville,” Eddie clarified.
“Yep. First item relevant to our mission: on Christmas Eve, the new rotary drill prototype got down to almost seven hundred feet before breaking down. But the crew was able to save the rig, contain the damage, and protect themselves. By this time next year, we’ll be digging holes a whole lot faster and deeper in Trinidad.”
And, more important, in Louisiana too, if Quinn’s expedition is successful, Eddie thought behind the cover of his broad smile and approving nod. “And the other message?”
Mike smiled. “The other message is for you, Eddie. Personally. From Simpson.”
“A personal message for me? From the admiral?”
“Yep. Because it summarized a bunch of politicking back home, it kind of rambled, so I only brought the last part on paper. But I can pretty much synopsize the rest. Simpson sends his warm congratulations on all that you and the ‘Allies’ have achieved. It is his pleasure to promote you to full commander on the basis of meritorious action. Furthermore, due to the death of Admiral Mund, he agrees to extend your brevet rank of post-captain indefinitely.” Mike noticed Eddie’s broad grin and shook his head. “Y’know, Eddie, you never get a promotion without new headaches.”