Commander Cantrell in the West Indies(83)

“Ah, but there’s more, Maarten. He doesn’t just want guards; he wants our guards. Dutch guards.”

“Why? Are we Dutch especially good at guarding things? Even things that do not belong to us?”

“No, but our guards operate under the aegis of our flag. So if the French try cases with them—”

“Yes, of course. Then there is an international incident. And since Warner is no longer in charge of an ‘English’ colony, he has no such protection of his own.”

“Precisely. The only thing that gives the French pause about running Warner off the island is the question of whether or not they can physically achieve it. But if his colony’s guards are our men, with the flag of Orange flying above, the French risk a war. And if there is anything we have an overabundance of in this area, it is soldiers.”

“Yes, but Warner seems to be acquiring their services far earlier than he needs to. He has little to worry about from such a small French colony.”

Van Walbeeck shook his head. “Except that the French colonists are not the direct threat. It is the dissent they have been successful at breeding among the English slaves, and some of the indentured workers from Ireland. And there is rumor that the French commander d’Esnambuc has been parleying with the natives as well. The Kalinago still want St. Christopher’s back, you know.”

Tromp stood. “Very well. So Warner wants our guards. When will the lease go into effect?”

“It will still be a few months, at least. Our people are eager to put the tracts around Sandy Point under cultivation, but it will take time to get them ready, to gather the equipment, to settle affairs here. And the same goes for determining which troops shall go.”

Tromp shook his head. “Since we are so close—a morning’s sail—there is no reason to make our forces on St. Christopher a fixed garrison. We shall rotate troops through the station, as we shall their commanders. I want our people to both know that island and to get a break from this one.”

Van Walbeeck nodded enthusiastically. “Most prudent. And speaking of guards, I’m wondering if we shouldn’t set up some special detachments of them here, too.”

Tromp folded his arms. “You mean, here in Oranjestad? We already have greatly oversized guard complements on all our warehouses, on the batteries, the outposts, the—”

“We need them on the women, Maarten. Particularly the visiting English ladies.”

“The ladies—?” And then Tromp understood. “Oh.”

“Yes. ‘Oh.’ Maarten, there are fewer than four hundred women on St. Eustatia, out of almost three thousand persons, more if you count our shipboard crews. Most of the four hundred women are already married. And you have seen the effects, surely.”

Tromp surely had. Brawls, drunken or otherwise, had been steadily increasing for six months. And however the causes and particulars varied, there was usually a common thread: it had started over a woman. It may have been that the woman in question had never spoken to, perhaps never even looked at, any of the combatants, but that hardly mattered. Like a bunch of young bucks in rutting season, any incident that could in any way be construed as a dispute over mating dominance resulted in locked horns. “What do you suggest?” he asked van Walbeeck.

“Cuthbert Pudsey.”

“The English mercenary who’s been in our ranks from Recife onward? A one man guard-detachment?”

“Maarten, do not be willfully obtuse. Of course not. Pudsey is to be the leader of, let us call it a ‘flying squad’ of escorts who will accompany any English ladies who come to call at Oranjestad. And given that it will be a merit-earned duty—”

“Yes. Perfect comportment and recommendations will be the prerequisite for being posted to that duty. With any brawling resulting in a six month disqualification from subsequent consideration. But really, Jan, you do not think our men would actually go so far as—?”

“Maarten, I will not balance the safety of the English ladies who visit—or perhaps, in the future, seek shelter with—us on my projections or hopes. We will assume the worst. And in the bargain, some lucky guards will come near enough to recall that ladies do, indeed, sweat—excuse me, perspire—in this weather. That they are not such perfect creatures, after all.” Van Walbeeck squinted as the light rose sharply on the table before them. The sun had finally peeked around the steep slope of the volcanic cone that was known simply as The Quill, St. Eustatia’s most prominent feature.

“Hmm. It is still the scent of a woman, Jan. And in circumstances such as ours, that will only quicken their starved ardor.”